


Mrs. Moriarty

by magnificent



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 44,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Because even the worst man in the wasteland needs a little love.





	1. The Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by:  
> http://urbania-site.s3.amazonaws.com/media/2016/04/clap.png
> 
> I immediately thought of the Irishman.

“Hey,” she tells the ghoul, once she's gotten over her shock. “I've seen worse.”

The bartender scowls, wiping down a glass. “Don't need the sarcasm, smoothskin.”

“I'm serious,” the Vaultie insists. “Down in the Vault, there was this one guy by the name of Butch DeLoria. Now, don't you start; I see you opening your mouth. See, you might be a ghoul, but at least you're not inbred. And the one's a lot worse than the other.”

Gob pauses to stare at her, wondering what exactly happened that this strange woman came crawling up out of the Vault over the hill, like some kind of mole rat. She's certainly as pale as one, with ghostly skin; luminous, almost. Her eyes are a mixture of slate and blue, like some kind of dark marble from the depths of a cavern. And her hands and her arms—long, thin, spidery. She has an odd way of movement, and squints too much. She slowly relaxes as the sun goes down, though Gob doesn't think that she notices.

And as he watches her, as men tend to do, he begins to think about her body. About her Mark, the pattern that identifies her soulmate. What it might look like. He wonders if she has an angry red splotch just above her left thigh, marring her skin, twisting out along her pale skin like the trails of a supernova. A Mark just like his, etched into his skin in the exact same place.

Shame burns low in his belly at the thought. That someone like her would be Matched to someone like him.

Mostly he's just angry at himself for hoping that the _first newcomer_ to not be utterly _disgusted_ by him is his soulmate.

 _Desperate._ So, so desperate. Even if she isn't... if she _isn't,_ he still wants to touch her. Still wants to see if that skin is as smooth as it is white. The shame burns deeper. It would be betraying his soulmate to touch another woman, he knows, but he wants to _pretend._

“See, Gob,” she's saying, “beauty is skin-deep. And I might have been living under a rock my whole life, but I'm an awfully good judge of character. You're a good guy. Butch wasn't. His personality shone right through that pretty smile of his, and it looked...”

She pauses. “It looked like a nasty, moldy... old piece of bread!” she bursts out.

Gob laughs at the anti-climatic insult. She huffs, but he only nods slowly. “I get it. So, what's your name, kid?”

The Vaultie blinks. “Odessa,” she says. “Dessa is fine. Or Des. I don't care, honestly.”

“Dessa,” he says carefully; _how should he bring this up?_ Should  _he bring this up?_   “In the Vault, did... did they... talk about the Marks and Matches?”

“Oh! You mean the soulmate thing!” she exclaims, sitting up straight. “Yeah! I mean, no, not really. We all have Marks, but no one thinks they're anything special. No one actually believes that it's a real thing, except for Mrs. Palmer, but that's because she married her Match. No one else has identical Marks in the Vault, so what does it matter anyways?”

She looks at him askance, and then shrugs. “Guess it was easier for everyone to pretend that it was just superstition than to think that they were missing out on something special.”

“Mm,” Gob says, his mouth dry.

“So... I guess ghouls have them too?”

He nods, his words leaving him entirely.

“Huh,” she muses. “So ghouls all have ghoul Matches, right? And humans have human Matches?”

He wets his mouth nervously. “No,” he says. “It's often mixed.”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Oh? Well, if everyone dislikes you as much as you say, then that must be an issue. You know who your Match is yet?”

“No,” he says. “So you believe in it too?”

Dessa smiles, a ridiculous grin on her face. “Yeah. Always have. And if all of you guys treat it like it's some act of God, then who am I to argue? It's kind of exciting, right? I've never thought I'd actually be able to meet my Match, but now that I'm out, nothing's stopping me from tracking him down, right?”

He nods, and his eyes lower. “Though... it's not quite as simple as you're making it, kid. Looking at someone else's Mark is... rather private, you know? And not everyone waits around for their Match.”

“Uh...” Dessa is clearly baffled. “Why?”

“Because,” Gob says grimly, “they don't always like their counterparts.”

She pauses. “Oh.”

A long silence, and Gob looks at her while Dessa fiddles with her rings. She has a small frown on her face, her long brown hair slipping from behind her ears to partially veil her features. Finally, she asks, “Why would people not want to be with their soulmate? That makes no sense. Isn't it a miracle in and of itself to find them in the first place?”

“Easier than you might expect,” Gob grunts, wondering when or if he'll find out what Mark Dessa has. _I want to know._ “Like... take Jericho for instance. You haven't met him, but he's an ex-raider, a real bad sort. Of all places, his Mark is on the side of his face. He retired and moved into Megaton when he found out that his soulmate was living here.”

Dessa gestures for him to continue, her marbled blue eyes intent.

“Jenny Stahl,” he says. “Barely seventeen years old, and Marked for Jericho. He thought that'd give him automatic rights to her, and...”

He trails off meaningfully, and Dessa's eyes widen. “Oh. _Oh._ To his own _soulmate?”_

“Needless to say, Jenny isn't particularly interested in Jericho, even years and years later. He's tried to reconcile, but she won't give in, and Jericho takes out his frustrations on the town whore.”

She winces. “You have one of these here?”

“Nova,” Gob says sadly. “She's in debt to Moriarty, just like me.”

“Gob...”

Better not dwell on that.

“Well. It gets more complicated. See, with Jenny not being interested in Jericho, there's a man here who thinks that he might be able to edge in. Billy Creel. Found his Match and lost her to sickness. He doesn't give a damn if Jenny gets with her soulmate; he just wants her to be happy. An' soulmate or not, I don't know if anyone could be happy with that bastard.” Gob shrugs. “So Jenny's dating Billy, and Jericho is torn between Jenny and Nova.”

“What about Nova's Match?” Dessa asks sadly.

Gob shakes his head. “Whoever he is, he hasn't shown up yet.”

Dessa hesitates, and he can see the thoughts racing through her head. _Ask. Ask me._ But she only says, “And why would people want to hide them? I get why they're so personal, but...”

“Because if you don't know if you'll even like your Match, what's the point?” Gob shrugs again. “Yeah, it's true that they're special. They're compatible, and there's a connection between soulmates that no one else can touch. But there's a lot of... pain involved, too, if your soulmate has lived a reckless life. Jericho might be the best man for Jenny in theory, but not if he forces her to do things against her will. And certainly not if he knows who she is but still sleeps with Nova.”

Her fingers tap the bar. “Gob,” she asks curiously, and his stomach coils. _Here it is._ “Where's your Mark?”

He bites the inside of his mouth, hard. “On... on my left hip.”

He sees her freeze, sees her pupils dilate.

_Oh god. Is it...?_

He's fumbling at his belt even before she asks, “Could I... see?”

Panting, Gob tosses the belt onto the floor, unzips his pants part-way, and, not looking up, his face burning, pulls down his pants and boxers a full inch on the left side. There, stretching across his hip-bone, is a dark red swirl, like an old wine-stain in rotting leather. _Disgusting._ But if... if Dessa... if she bears the same Mark, then...

He'd be overjoyed. Complete. Given everything Dessa has said, he's fairly certain that she likes him well enough, and to have found his Match, and a smoothskin no less...

He nearly groans at the thought.

“Sorry,” Dessa says, and that throws him out of his fantasies with a hard slap. Gob steps back behind the counter, crippled in shame, his head hanging. He puts his belt back on in silence.

“Mine's...” Dessa pauses, and shrugs. “Left hip too, but on my back. It's, uh, it's not as cool-looking, either. More just splotchy.”

Gob blinks. She thinks it looks... cool? That raised patch of hardened skin, spiderwebbing out like a localized infection?

_Damn._

He really missed out on this one. If only he could... could trade, or something... wouldn't that make it so much easier? There have been so many ghouls cheated out of love by their soulmates, proud and selfish smoothskins who refused to stoop to the indignity of being a _ghoulfucker._

God, he wished her could smooth hers away and brand her with his own.

“You know,” he says nervously, “if you find yours and you don't like him...”

Dessa sits upright at that, and her eyes are just as intent as before, only much more predatory. “Yeah? And what about yours?”

“Um...”

“You'd leave your girl without anyone? You could really tolerate betraying her like that?” Dessa growls. Her arms are folded.

Gob sighs, and hangs his head. “Smoothskin... who would want me?”

“I would,” Dessa says firmly.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he gapes at her.

“If you were my Match, yes, I'd want you,” she says, and then glares. “And I'd be _happy_ about it. So don't think that you're all left alone. You've got your Match out there, just like I have mine. You just need some faith and patience. Okay?”

Gob nods, still wide-eyed. Inside, he's reeling. _Is this girl crazy? Saying things like that about ghouls... about_ me...

Yeah. Definitely crazy.

 


	2. The Match

Dessa is enjoying herself. And she's surprised. Pleasantly so, of course. How on earth could she have known that after two nights as Doc Church's patient after escaping Vault 101, two nights to grieve and cry and plan, that she would meet a man as sweet and kind as Gob? Someone who'd explain this strange new world to her? She's indebted to him.

She does not, however, feel bad about turning him down. She can tell that he's both stunned and disappointed— _I'd want you. And I'd be happy about it._ She'd spoken forcefully and honestly, and is kind of gleeful to have shocked the ghoul into silence.

Really, he isn't so bad-looking. Peeling and oozing, sure, but he's still got a _face_ and _expressions,_ right? And he's so gosh-darn cute. Acting so innocent around her, trying to be polite, but still man enough to try to seduce her into doing something bad.

“So,” she says, taking another sip of her beer, “tell me about this Moriarty guy. He's your boss, right? And Nova? Tell me about her, too.”

Gob glances around nervously, even though they're alone in the bar. “Nova's a peach,” he says. “Sweet as you can be. Like I said, though, both of us are in debt to Moriarty. So... we work however he tells us to.”

Dessa's eyes narrow. “So, he's pimping her out? It's not even her choice?”

“It's a choice, I guess,” Gob mutters. “But not much of one. Either she does what he says, or she starves on the street.”

“Jesus fu... fudge.” She doesn't realize that she's sworn until she notices Gob staring at her. “Uh, sorry. Just... nothing like that would have ever happened in the Vault, you know? We went hungry sometimes, and we never had much, but no one was ever treated like... _that.”_

She pauses. “Wait, so are you...”

“I'm not a slave, if that's what you're asking, not really. He, uh, he bought me off of some slavers, though, and I have to pay him back for rescuing me. Course. I get charged for room and board, too.” Gob sighs. “He has the rates fixed so that I'm always just short of making it out of here.”

Her fists clench. _Bastard._

“Gob,” she asks quietly, “What can I do?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin' _to_ do. Just... don't cause trouble, and don't talk to me too much around Moriarty, and I'll be more or less okay. Nothing for you to worry about.”

As if on cue, Dessa hears movement on the floor up above them, and her eyes lift at the sound of a shutting door. She sees dark gray jeans, a white t-shirt peeking out from a black leather vest. Long silver hair and a neatly-trimmed beard. And hard, watchful eyes. He only lifts an eyebrow at their connected gaze, and makes his way down the stairs.

“Ah, the newcomer,” the man says, and Dessa starts at his unusual accent. “I'd heard about you stumbling into Megaton. It's a pleasure to see you here... the lass from the Vault.”

She glances at Gob, and sees that he's hunched over, looking half his size. _So... this must be Colin Moriarty._ She doesn't think that anyone else would garner the same reaction, given what Gob has said about his master.

“Yes,” Dessa says carefully. “Lucas Simms directed me over here. Said that you might know something about my father. Middle-aged guy, blue eyes. A doctor?”

Moriarty's eyes widen, and his tone warms, genuinely. “My God... It's you. The little baby girl, all grown up. Persistent little flower, ain't ya? Then and now, it would seem. It's been a long time, kid. Oh, your daddy passed through here, all right. Here and gone. Got what he came for, and then left. I'm assuming you'll do the same, correct?”

She blinks, shocked, and shakes her head. “Little baby girl...? No. No, you must have the wrong person. My dad and I have never been outside Vault 101. We were both born there, you...”

Dessa trails off.

Moriarty is _laughing?_

“Is that what your father told you? That you were born in that hole? That _he_ was born there as well?” He shakes his head, still chuckling, and mutters, “Oh, the lies we tell to those we love.”

Dessa is instantly furious, without really knowing why. She's on her feet in an instant. “Shut up! My dad's not a liar! He would _never_ lie about something like that!”

Moriarty only snickers again. “You know, I heard about the brainwashin' that goes on down there. From some other fella, escaped, oh... five years back. _'All hail the Overseer! We're born in the Vault; we die in the Vault!'_ And all that other assorted lunacy. Kid, you've got better programming than our own Deputy Weld. You'd best wise up quick. Wouldn't want anyone... takin' advantage of ya. Hmm?”

Dessa's face flushes at the insinuation. She asks, coldly, “Like you've taken advantage of Nova and Gob?”

The Irishman grins, and his eyelids lower. “Exactly right.”

She shudders.

“Listen, kid, you seem like a good enough lass, so I'll throw you a bone. I know some info on where your dad is, but information isn't free out here, you know? One hundred caps is a good deal for something so valuable, don't you think?”

Her mouth gapes. Opens, closes. She feels a whine enter her voice when she says, “But I don't _have_ one hundred caps.”

Moriarty seems to anticipate this. “All right, kid. Let me help you out, you know... for old time's sake. If you don't have the caps to pay for the information, then maybe you could do a little favor for me.”

Dessa chances a look at Gob, and he only hunches over lower. _Shoot._ This is really bad, isn't it? If Moriarty is really the only one who knows how to help her, then... he's probably gonna extort her as much as he can. Without any kind of mercy.

That means, if she wants to find her dad, she has to play this awful man's twisted games.

“A favor.”

“You're willing to listen, then. Good. This junkie bitch named Silver borrowed quite a few caps from me... claimed she could start funneling Jet and Psycho to me for a good price,” Moriarty explains. “Problem is, she scrammed with the loot and set herself up in Springvale so she can inject herself into a stupor. Get the caps she owes me and they're yours.”

He pauses, and turns that charming but cruel smile on her again. “Yours to pay me with, anyway. Heheheh.”

 _Creep._ Dessa doesn't have any other choice, though. But... at least it should be easy enough, right? All she has to do is find this girl and talk to her, right? “How much does she owe you?”

The corner of his mouth twists down. “Three hundred caps. A good deal for you, eh?”

Dessa sighs, and nods. “Yeah. I'll at least get the hundred.”

Moriarty's expression brightens again, greedily, and he nods. “Well, then. Once you get those caps... you'll know where to find me.”

He turns and walks out of the bar without another word, whistling cheerily. Dessa listens to the jingle of bells over the door as he slams it shut behind him.

She looks at Gob, who is beginning to reinflate. “I think I see what you mean about him.”

He grimaces.

“Could'a been worse,” Dessa says with a shrug. “Honestly, I was a little surprised. I thought he'd make me pay in the same way that he has Nova payin'.”

Gob shakes his head. “He wouldn't suggest prostitution to someone unless they were fully in debt to him. As far as with the boss himself... he's superstitious. Thinks he's better than everyone else because of staying loyal to his Match.”

“Oh?” Dessa asks, surprised. “There's a Mrs. Moriarty?”

Gob shakes his head. “Man's been alive for over fifty years, and still no sign of her. Honestly, I don't think she's coming. Long-dead in the wastes, probably.”

“That... that happens?”

“Sure. The Confessor and Mother Maya are married, but they're not Matched. The Confessor's Match was married to him, died a long time ago, and Maya would have stayed single except that a female friend of hers saw her Mark and remembered that there was a boy from her town with an identical Mark. Killed in his teenage years from a Brahmin's kick.”

Gob shrugs. “So, you're safe from Moriarty, at least in that sense.”

“Huh." _I guess that's one redeeming feature, at least._  "And... what can you tell me about Silver?”

He grimaces. “She worked here for a few years, alongside Nova. Nice enough girl—not as nice as Nova, but she was half-decent to me. Makes her okay in my book.”

Dessa nods, gesturing for him to continue.

“Caravans got her hooked on chems,” Gob says. “Lots of men like a hit of Jet in bed after... you know... and apparently that's how Silver got into the habit. After about a year, she was in it deep enough and was desperate enough to try to cheat Moriarty.”

“I take it that it was a pretty stupid idea.”

“Yeah, well... Silver's out, isn't she? Got a nice deposit from Moriarty, apparently has some house out in the ruins... though, she's out with the raiders, which is bad unless she made some kinda deal with them.” Gob shrugs. “Guess it's not really any better or worse, huh?”

Dessa bites her lip. “Do you know where her new house is?”

“About a half mile away, I think, out near the school. I don't know for sure, though, I've haven't left the town in years, but, Simms checked in on her last week and he said that's where she is.”

Moriarty steps back in, giving them a look when he sees Dessa still sitting there. “We're closing,” he says. “Gob, see her out? And good luck to you with Silver, lass.”

She frowns, watching him head upstairs again. “Damn, I hadn't realized how late it was getting. Uh... I stayed with Doc Church for the past two nights while I was recovering, and he's totally kicked me out, I can't stay with him again. Said he doesn't want to see me again unless my brains are half-out of my head.”

Gob laughs, shaking his head. “Hospitable.”

“You know a place where I could stay?”

The bartender pauses, his brow furrowing. “Mm. There's the common house a few yards away, but... it's pretty messy and crowded. And sometimes dangerous. Moriarty has rooms available, but they're one hundred and twenty caps...”

Gob trails off, and Dessa sighs. “Right. And if I _had_ that much money, I'd be spending it on info. Common house it is. Unless, maybe, Moriarty might let me stay for free since I'm doing him a favor?”

Dessa is hopeful, but her face falls at Gob's incredulous laugh. “Mr. Moriarty? Give away something for free? You've gotta be kidding me.”

“No one's here,” Dessa argues. “It's not like anyone would be sleeping in those beds anyway.”

“Doesn't matter, kid,” Gob says. “He's a cheapskate. But if you want, you can go on up and ask him. Maybe he'll be easy on you, since he knows your dad.”

Dessa walks upstairs, glancing left and right, a little uncertain about being up here, but Gob gives her an encouraging smile as he starts wiping down tables, and she feels a little better.

She _thinks_ that Moriarty went into the last door, but she isn't sure; the first door is slightly open, and she gives it a perfunctory once-over before she realizes, with embarrassment, that there's a half-naked woman visible through the crack.

“Hey, baby. Lookin's free, but any more and you'll have to pay.”

Dessa covers her eyes. “I am so sorry!”

There's a husky laugh. “You're fine. Hey, are you the kid who was talking to Gob all day?”

Dessa peeks out from between her fingers, disconcerted. The woman isn't putting on any pants; she's still just standing there in a man's shirt and nothing else. “Er. Yeah.”

“He's a good kid. Thanks for bein' good to him. He doesn't get that very often.” The woman pauses. “I'm Nova, by the way.”

“Odessa.”

“Cute,” the prostitute says. “You looking for Moriarty?”

“Mm.”

“Third door. Don't let him bully you.”

“Thanks. I... I won't.” Dessa isn't sure about how truthful she's being, but it helps a little, to think that she might be strong enough to stand up against Moriarty to negotiate for her right to sleep in a safe place.

 _Third door._ Right. Like Nova's, it's a bit ajar, and she can see lamplight shining out. _Good, he's still awake._

Dessa knocks twice, and pushes it open. “Mr. Moriarty? I-”

She falls dead silent, her face going white.

Moriarty is standing with his back to her, his vest tossed onto his bed; but that's not what has Dessa dumbstruck. He's halfway finished pulling off his shirt; horrifyingly embarrassing, for sure; _how old is he, anyway? Fifty? Sixty?_ And her eyes are fixed onto his back.

Above his waistband is a light brown Mark, a small and relatively inconspicuous stain about the size of a half-dollar. Nothing more than a large splotch, and so generic that it could easily be confused for a birthmark instead of a _real_ Mark.

Dessa feels her own burning against her skin.

They match.

They _match._

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Moriarty's voice is angry, his head turned slightly to look at her without turning around. “Get out.”

“I—uh—sorry—”

“Get _out.”_

Dessa flees the room, slamming the door behind her, heart hammering in her chest. _Shoot!_ It can't... _he_ can't... her soulmate? _Him?_ The nastiest man in Megaton (aside from Jericho, probably) and he's... they're...

She can't wrap her mind around it.

Dessa takes a deep breath. Lets it out, passing Nova's room as she heads down the stairs, ignoring the curious look that the woman gives her. Past Gob, who's opening his mouth, a question on his lips.

_Well... common house it is, then._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... I remember the first time I spoke to Moriarty... I thought he was so nice, for all of three seconds.  
> what an ass.  
> <3


	3. The Mission

The common house is every bit as sleazy and uncomfortable as Gob promised. It's filled up with sagging bunk beds, dilapidated shelving units, and tin cans still crusted with the remnants of a meal. The only free blankets that Dessa can find are threadbare, or stained with a thick yellow film. She stays away from the latter and ignores the male cackles when she accidentally touches one of the filthy blankets.

And... _damn._ All the beds are taken. She makes her way to an armchair, shivering. It's so _hot_ during the day, she's not acclimated to the temperature difference yet; if she had a bed to curl up in properly, she might be able to get warm, but... with just two small, holey blankets, there's nothing she can do to cover herself completely. Some part of her is always bared to the open air, whether it's her legs or her arms or her neck. Of course, she's still wearing her Vault suit, but that doesn't provide as much warmth as she wished it would.

She wonders what Moriarty is doing. If he's still awake, like her, struggling to fall asleep; or if he's splayed out in his bed, warm and relaxed under the comforter she'd seen draped on his bed. If he sleeps with his shirt off. She thinks about the muscle she had glimpsed, the easy strength of his back, the same lazy power that he holds over the town.

Dessa shivers again. Her _soulmate._ It could be worse, probably; after all, she'd heard about the raiders outside, the addicted madmen of the wastes. And she supposed that she'd rather it be Moriarty than one of the sleazy men in the common house. Also... if Moriarty comes to accept her, then he'll be able to protect her. After all, he's supposed to be one of the most powerful men in Megaton, if not at the very top. He could protect her with his caps and his reputation, as well as his physical strength. Nothing to complain about  _there._

She shifts under her blankets. Tries to keep her feet covered, but when she bunches the blanket between the soles of her feet and the icy floor, it falls off her knees and crumples over her toes, baring her legs to the drafty air. A curse rises inside of her, unbidden, and she angrily pushes it away. Dad always hated swearing.

She wonders if it might be better to just go back to Moriarty's Saloon and 'fess up. Pull up her shirt, show him her Mark, and beg for him to let her share his bed. At least then she'd be _warm._

Maybe too warm. One of the only things stopping her at this point is the thought of what he might do to her.

Odessa had been told since childhood from the ladies of the Vault that it was a woman's duty to _lie back and submit to her husband,_ whenever it was that she married. Never mind whatever _she_ might feel about it, the lust of a man was more important than her own comfort. She had no doubts about what Moriarty would do. The breed of man who would enslave a ghoul and pimp out a woman would certainly have no qualms about... about... having sex—no, _fucking—_ an unwilling girl. Their Marks branded them together. Wouldn't he think that he was just taking what he deserved? And wasn't _she_ thinking the same thing, in that she could get into his bed and eat his food and enjoy his comfort, without question?

Still. She wishes that she were warm.

 

* * *

 

Gob isn't terribly surprised to see Dessa arrive in the morning, a few minutes after Moriarty unlocks the door. She looks exhausted, red-rimmed around her eyes, with light bruises below. Her lips are chapped.

She looks like a mess.

“Gob,” she whispers, and sits heavily at a barstool.

“Hey,” he says warily. “Are you okay? Didn't sleep well?”

She shakes her head. “Hungry. I... I found a cap. Is there anything-”

Gob sighs, glances around, and then takes the cap and pulls out a small loaf of bread, freshly baked this morning. It doesn't come close to measuring up to the sweet rolls at the Brass Lantern, but it's hearty bread, and filling. Worth a lot more than one cap, but he'll be damned if he lets a sweet and pretty thing like Dessa starve.

The smile that she gives him in return is well-worth the risk of being beaten by Moriarty. She tears into the bread with gusto, pausing only to say, “I haven't eaten since Doc Church discharged me yesterday morning.”

“Shit,” Gob mutters. “Look—Moriarty would have my hide if he knew I was sayin' this... but if you starve like that again, just tell me. I'll try to sneak some food for you.”

Her face softens, and her posture opens up. “Gob...”

He tries not to blush, and fails. “It's nothing.”

Dessa is silent for a long time, tearing eagerly at the bread. When she finishes, Gob grimaces and hands her some purified water. Moriarty will notice its absence for sure, but... this girl from the Vault... she isn't used to radiation, and the poisons will tear her insides apart.

Hopefully his boss won't tear _him_ apart.

“Gob?”

“Mm?” he grunts, forcing his gaze away from the crumb at the corner of her mouth.

“You said that Moriarty is superstitious, right?”

“Mm. The old bastard's Irish,” he says derisively. “He's obsessed with all sorts of bizarre things. Combs falling onto the floor. The way that a fire sparks. He's yelled at customers for 'trying to steal his luck' before. Damn crazy.”

Dessa lets out an odd giggle, her eyes downcast. “Huh. Okay. So he's just as focused on the Match thing too?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, although it doesn't come up in conversation as often. Honestly, I'd forget about it if he wouldn't do things like occasionally ask women about their Marks.”

She snorts. “And how does _that_ go?”

“Tell him to mind his own business.”

The Vault girl bites her lip.

“So...” Dessa starts, hesitantly, “if I... if I were his Match, he'd take care of me?”

Gob raises an eyebrow. “Uhm. Yeah, I suppose so. Probably'd be smug as hell for the next decade. Especially,” he mutters, “to get a girl as pretty as you.”

But he doesn't think that Dessa heard that last part. She's fiddling with the zipper on her Vault suit, looking nervous. “Have... have you ever seen his Mark?”

“A few times,” Gob says, wondering where this is going.

Dessa nods, standing, and Gob's mind blanks when he hears the sound of her zipper. His heart beats hard and fast, all the blood rushing from his head to his groin, and his hands grip into the bar, hard enough to splinter wood.

She's got a cute little see-through camisole on underneath, and— _ugh—_ no bra. Her back is to him, though, so he can't see her nipples, but he imagines them, small and dark and hard as pebbles. Is she—is this—

Dessa lifts the back of her shirt, and Gob's stomach bottoms out. His breath is coming hard and fast, and his mental faculties only begin to return when he wonders, distractedly, why she's stopping there.

And then he sees it. Her Mark. An earth-toned stain on her beautiful white skin. A zig-zagging shape, formless and flecked, as if it were a few drops of paint from the Creator's brush. To Gob, it's as disgusting and distasteful as a rotten, oozing spot on a bright red apple.

She... she _belongs_ to that old bastard.

He lets out a choked noise, and Dessa takes that as a sign that he's seen what she intended. Slowly, she replaces the camisole and zips her suit back up. Returns to her seat at the bar.

“So... yeah,” she says quietly.

Gob stammers, “D-Does he know?”

She shakes her head. “I saw him last night. Went up to ask him about a free room, and... well... uhm, I walked in on him changing.”

She's blushing. Gob's stomach flips at the sight of her rosy red cheeks, spots of color on her white silk skin. Blushing. Because of that disgusting old man.

Gob would be lying if he said he wasn't attracted to Dessa even more now that he knows who she's Matched with. The thought of having this girl, before Moriarty even realizes who she really is... that he's seen her Mark before Moriarty has... seen her remove her clothing before him... he wants more. He wants to kiss her, to claim her. What better way to get revenge on Moriarty than fucking his girl in the old man's office?

Damn, he can imagine it now. Sitting down in Moriarty's chair in front of that goddamn computer and watching Dessa bounce up and down on his cock.

He worries at the inside of his mouth with his teeth. Yeah, he could do that. But Dessa probably wouldn't be interested, and his attraction now is for the wrong reasons. It's not as if he'd be cruel to her, or be uninterested afterwards—he really does like Dessa... but... still.

It's wrong. And Gob should know way fucking better than to be fantasizing about the bar's patrons, because now she's looking at him expectantly and he realizes that she's asked him a question.

“Uhm,” he manages, “What?”

“I asked if you think... he'd... force me to do anything I wouldn't want. If he'd respect me.”

Gob gives this proper consideration and grimaces at the answer he forces out. “He won't respect you, probably, not really... but he'd respect you enough to not do anything you didn't want. You're his Match, so he'd treat you more like a lady than any other girls in this town. He's a jackass, but he's not completely inhuman. Not all the time.”

Just as he finishes saying this, the door bangs open and both Dessa and Gob jump.

“Gob! Quit runnin' yer jaws and get to work!” he snaps, and turns to Dessa with a sly smile. “And hello, lass. Have you found Silver for me yet?”

Her blush only heightens, and she stares at her lap. “No, I haven't. I was planning on going today.”

“Mm,” Moriarty says, still smiling, “well, better hurry on that. No telling what might have happened to your dear old dad... even as we wait here...”

Dessa blanches.

Gob scowls at Moriarty's insinuation, hating the man all the more, and scrubs at the bar with a dirty rag. How dare he say such a thing to his poor, penniless Match!

He wonders, as they watch Moriarty head into his office and close the door, why Dessa doesn't just tell him that she's his Match and get the information for free. Surely he'd tell her then, right? There'd be no need to withhold that information from her unless he wasn't intending to keep her.

Dessa smiles uncertainly, her eyes a little watery, and says, “I should go.”

Gob nods, not trusting his voice. If he said anything, it'd probably just come out as a growl.

“And... what we talked about. Can you keep it a secret, please?”

“Are... aren't you going to tell him?”

“Not yet,” Dessa says, and her eyes flick to the office door. “I will eventually. Just... I don't know how things might change. It's... like my trump card. If things get really desperate, I'll play it... but for now... for now, I want to see how things go.”

Gob blinks. “Are you deciding against...” And he tilts his head to the door, where Moriarty is no doubt listening.

Dessa shakes her head. “I'm still going to go for it. I can't imagine not revealing myself, but... you know. It's complicated.”

“I'm here if you change your mind,” Gob mutters, and Dessa, thankfully, only giggles.

“You charmer, you,” she says, looking pleased, and heat rushes to his groin again. He sighs and rolls his eyes at his reaction, trying to hide his discomfort, and Dessa stands up. “Guess I should be going. Don't want to miss out on those caps, right?”

“Dessa?”

“Yes?”

“Please be careful.”

“I will, don't worry about me!”

“Silver is dangerous,” Gob says, “and growing up in that Vault, you probably didn't have Psycho. It's an awful drug, and if Silver really is addicted to it, she might try to kill you. She might be far stronger than she looks. Please, if it comes down to it, run away if she tries to fight. Use your... trump card, if you must. It's not worth your life.”

Dessa's face softens. “Thanks, Gob. Don't worry.”

But, despite what she says, he worries anyway. He wonders, for one wild moment, what might happen if he threw open Moriarty's office door and shouted at that asshole that he was sending his intended out into the wasteland, potentially to be killed by the woman he'd prostituted. Of course Moriarty would be alarmed, and Gob is sure that he would be overly apologetic and careful with Dessa, well-aware of how easily this skinny girl could have been killed.

But... that, too, would be wrong.

So he keeps his mouth shut, and once Dessa has left, he returns to scrubbing the countertop, a frown creasing his forehead.

 


	4. The Moll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dessa pays a visit to Silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update to keep you entertained. My apologies, I hadn't realized it was almost a month since updating last.

Dessa sets off from Megaton with more than a little anxiety. Her pulse is erratic, her hands sweating and clammy. _What am I going to do about Silver? I don't know much about chems, but... if she's an addict, she's desperate, right? She won't want to give up her caps..._

She frowns, passing the beggar at the gates; “Water,” he says, but Dessa passes by without a word. Even if she had some to spare, she doesn't know if she would; she is terrified, selfishly so, of the damage that radiation could wreak on her body. She knows that the water Gob gave her was precious, that he shouldn't have given it to her. She's thankful for that.

She tries to calm herself, thinking of her only friend; _he's going to be okay. I'm Moriarty's Match; nothing bad will happen to Gob, because I'll be able to stop him from hurting the poor guy._ If it really gets down to it, she'll reveal herself to him in order to spare Gob, but hopefully she'll be able to get the caps from Silver and pay Gob back before Moriarty finds out what his 'servant' had done.

Maybe, if she ever becomes rich enough, and she is able to take things from Moriarty without him minding, she'll bring purified water to the beggar. She's not sure how long that might take though.

For now... for now, she has to deal with Silver.

It's a decent trek down to Silver's house, over uneven terrain and past rugged boulders. She nearly twists her ankle stepping from one rock to the ground, not expecting the hitch in the dirt; _damn! Is it always this hard to get around?_ Dessa's never stepped on uneven ground before. She's decidedly against it.

She's alerted to Silver's house when she sees the group of men leaving the only intact house in the area. _Must be Silver's place_  They sneer and cackle and draw weapons, and Dessa raises her hands, alarmed.  _Shit! They didn't kill her, did they?_

“Well, hey, lookie here. Cute little bitch, ain't she?”

The men snicker.

_Pigs._

She tries to hide her distaste. “I'm looking for Silver,” she manages.

“Oh, are ya now?” the man in front stalks forward, smirking; he does, however, stow his pistol, jamming it into his belt haphazardly. He's missing two fingers on his left hand. “And what does a fresh-faced girl have to do with Silver, huh?”

“I'm her friend,” she says.

He scoffs and tosses his men a glance. “A friend? Hah. We're the only friends that bitch needs, right? You ain't nothin' compared to us. Betcha Silver won't even notice if we take ya and have... a little fun.”

Her mouth tightens. “Actually,” she retorts, “I think she will. Now, let me through.”

They sneer and cackle and make all sorts of nasty comments, but they part without too much resistance and allow her to reach the door. She gives them a quiet _thank you_ as they move aside without meaning to—it's habit, plain and simple, but they still guffaw at her as if she'd done something particularly idiotic.

There is a woman in the front room, a thin trail of cigarette smoke rising from her pouting lips; on Dessa's entrance, she removes it with two cherry-red fingernails and stubs it out in the ashtray to her right. She has platinum blonde hair and there is only one person that she could be.

“Hey, Silver,” Dessa says softly.

“Who the hell are you?” The woman's voice is sweet but roughened by anxiety. _She's scared._ Of what? Of the raiders? Of _her?_

“Moriarty sent me,” she says, and Silver flinches.

_Wrong thing to say._

“Hey!” she shrieks, and Dessa backs away in alarm. “Guys! Serpent! Viktor! You still out there?”

The men come rushing in, guns drawn, and they form a semi-circle around them. They're huffing and glaring and cracking their necks, posturing. It's not an idle threat, though. Dessa is lightly armed and can't fight worth shit.

“She's with Moriarty!” Silver shrieks, pointing a finger dramatically. “You boys said you'd protect me!”

Dessa has her hands raised. “Calm down!” she pleads. “I'm here to help you!”

“No one from Moriarty would ever try to help me!”

“Calm down, Silver,” one of the raiders says. “We'll take care of this.”

Though she's frightened, Dessa straightens her back and loosens her posture. _Breathe. Focus. They won't attack you if you act confident and calm._ “At least someone here is being rational,” she says, glancing at Silver, still hiding behind the raiders. “I think calming down is something that everyone needs to do. Especially since I don't plan on hurting any of you.”

Silver narrows her eyes; a raider _hmm_ s, lights up a cigarette, and gestures for her to continue. The other raiders are lowering their weapons.

“Thing is,” Dessa says, with a sigh, “I need caps. Badly. And I don't know what to do. I need information from Moriarty, and he's charging me out the ass for it. I told him I didn't have the caps; he sent me here.”

“To kill me,” Silver says.

“He never said either way,” Dessa says. “I guess that's probably what he wanted me to do.”

“Dumbass,” Silver snorts. “That old bastard didn't think that I could find friends of my own out here? Kill _me?_ With the guys I have now? He's crazy.”

Dessa shakes her head. “Vindictive. Not crazy at all. There's... there's something cold in him, Silver, and it's not going to stop burning inside of him until he gets his revenge. I'm not gonna lie, caps are nice, but I really came here to warn you.”

Silver's face softens, just a little. “You came... to warn me? Why? Why would you do that?”

“It's the right thing to do,” Dessa shrugs.

“Come on, _no_ one's _that_ selfless.”

“If I don't make up for the things that Moriarty has done, then who will?” Dessa asks in return. No one. No one will. Because she's his Match, this responsibility falls on her. Not that she's going to let Silver know that, though. It would be the height of idiocy to let Silver know that she's important to Moriarty, not with so many raiders in the room. If they thought that they could hurt him by killing her, or that they could ransom her off...

“You're alright,” Silver says, finally. “Can't tell for the life of me if you really mean it, but... yeah. You're right. Serpent and the rest are great guys, they keep me safe, but...” She looks at the raiders. “Maybe I should take up that offer to move into the school with the rest of you.”

“Damn right you should,” a man with a snake tattoo coiling up his neck says. “We'd be happy to have you. Springvale's got plenty of room.”

Silver shrugs. “I guess I'll be leaving with you guys, then. Not like there's much to pack up. Hey, uh... you boys wanna wait outside?”

Dessa and Silver are left standing together, alone. Dessa reflects that despite their obvious differences—junkie vs teetotaler, prostitute vs virgin—that they're very similar on a basic level. Both of them have been victimized by Moriarty; both of them have struggled tooth and nail against the world.

And both of them have failed to thrive.

Dessa doesn't kid herself. If Gob hadn't taken pity on her this morning, hadn't given her food and water, she easily could have fallen ill and died within the week. She's terrible at fighting or firing weapons. She's weak and easily frightened. She has a slow reaction time and has low stamina. A Vault-dweller, through and through. Not suited to this world.

But her and Silver, they're different, and the only thing that's separating them is the Mark on Dessa's back. Matching her to Moriarty. Dessa isn't stupid. She can't survive on her own.

Sooner or later, she's going to have to tell him.

“One hundred caps,” Silver says.

“Huh?”

“That's how much you owe Moriarty.”

“Uhm... yeah.”

“Here.” Silver pulls open a dresser drawer and hands her a bag of caps. “I know what it's like, being in debt. Obviously. And with that bastard, it's one hell of a slippery slope. You take these caps, and you _get out._ Stay away from him.”

Dessa weighs the bag in her hand. The metal pieces are cool to the touch.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

She wonders what Silver would do if she knew just how impossible 'getting out' would be.

There's no escaping the brand on her skin.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had always wondered how Silver managed to survive, as a single woman, so close to those raiders. I like to think that she worked out some kind of deal with them.


	5. The Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dessa delivers her payment.

Dessa feels the tension building in her shoulders as she approaches Megaton, the bag of one hundred caps heavy in her hand. This is it. She has the money... but will Moriarty's information actually be useful? But he's her only lead. Her only way of finding her father. No one else can say for sure if they saw him, and Gob had only gotten a glance at the man before Moriarty had ushered him away.

She almost thinks that Moriarty knew she might come, that he'd planned out a way to make her life as miserable as possible. Stupid—of course Moriarty isn't _that_ sly. But it just feels so _unfair,_ for one man to have so much power over her. Financially. Emotionally. Physically.

She spies him almost instantly when she enters the town; he's many yards away from her, but as her eyes sweep over the haphazard, junked-up town, she spies Moriarty's silver hair, glinting where he stands on his balcony. Surveying the town as if he owns it. Which he does, more or less. She gets that sticky feeling of fear and vulnerability and excitement upon seeing him, a tightness in her throat, a longing for contact and acceptance as well as an intense desire to get the hell away from him.

She wonders if that's how all Matches feel, or if it's just her.

When she gets closer, keeping an eye on him, she notes the bottle of beer in his hand.

“Drinking at this time of day, Mr. Moriarty?” she calls. He lifts the bottle to her in acknowledgment, still leaning on the railing.

“A man can't drink his own product?”

“I just didn't take you for a drunkard.”

“You wound me, lass.” He straightens up, glancing at the bag in her hand, and smiles. “You paid a visit to Silver, I see.”

“I did.” Dessa crosses her arms, wondering how much she should say.

“And?”

“Let's just say she won't be stealing anyone's caps anytime soon.” Which, technically, is true.

“Oh?” Moriarty cocks an eyebrow. “So the bitch is dead.”

Dessa just shrugs.

“Then,” Moriarty says, and takes the bag from her. Dessa flinches when their hands touch and hopes that he doesn't notice. Last thing she needs is for him to think that she's weak.

But it looks like he's much more interested in the money itself. He picks a cap out of the bag, weighs it in his hand, palms it. “Very well, then. About your dear old dad. You've heard of the Brotherhood of Steel?”

“No,” she says.

“Well, get used to the name, because they're one of the more active players in the wasteland. Anything a man could ever want, the Brotherhood has. They hoard old world tech almost as much as I hoard caps.” He snickers, and Dessa only waits. “Anyway, they're in fairly close with your dad, as much as the Brotherhood can get with an outsider. There's a Brotherhood outpost deep in the DC ruins. Galaxy News Radio.”

“Gob was talking about them!” Dessa exclaims, glad to have some familiar ground. “Three Dog and the Good Fight and everything.”

Moriarty's expression shifts with distaste, but he keeps that smirk plastered onto his face. She wonders if it's disgust towards Gob, or just simple irritation at being interrupted. “Glad to see you're picking some things up here and there, lass. Yes, the Brotherhood guards the station. Now, your daddy didn't stay long, but he did say he was headed down there. If you are lookin' to find him, I'd suggest you start there.”

Dessa blinks. Waits.

“Is... is that _it?”_ she yelps, her voice going high on the end. “I paid one hundred caps for _that?”_

He crosses his arms, smug. “Something wrong?”

“That's... that's barely anything! That's hardly more than a rumor! You... you!” Dessa bites down on her lip before she says anything that she'll regret, and turns away towards the town so that she doesn't have to look at him anymore. She's horribly ashamed to feel tears welling up in her eyes. _It's okay, Dessa,_ she tells herself. _You've had a rough day. It's not your fault. Just... just calm down._

Moriarty takes another swig, entirely unaffected. “Ah, but it's worth it to you, isn't it? Did I tell you how I was pricing the information? There's an awful lot of caps in sentimental value, isn't there?”

Dessa chokes out a rusty laugh, mostly in amazement at her Match's callousness. “Yeah.”

“Then there's no problem.”

“I wouldn't say _that,”_ Dessa retorts, and Moriarty only snorts, taking another sip.

Well... if nothing else, it's fairly likely that it won't be all a waste. If Moriarty really is as superstitious as Gob says, then there's a good chance that he'll spend a good bit of it on her, once she tells him who she really is. It's very likely, that even though she was cheated out of one hundred caps, that she'll be getting them back. Eventually.

It still rankles her, and she's still a little unsteady because of her outburst.

 _Calm down,_ she tells herself again.

“Uhm... you said Dad and I stayed here when I was a baby.”

“You bet your bottom dollar you did. A full two and a half months.”

“That's how you recognized me?” Dessa is skeptical.

“Lass, you're the spittin' image of your mother,” Moriarty says with a shrug. “And you've got your father's eyes.”

Dessa's eyes widen. “You... you knew my mother, too?”

“Oh, I met her a few times, before you were even a twinkle in your father's eye. Catherine was a sweet lady. Sorry about your mother. Truly, I am,” Moriarty adds with a shrug that makes Dessa question the sincerity of his words. “When your father came back through, she was gone, and you were here. Imagine my surprise.”

She ignores his tone and focuses on puzzling out the situation. “So... he stayed here... while... while he was trying to get into Vault 101?”

“Mm, precisely. Took him awhile to hash out the details with the old Overseer within, but they let the two of you in eventually.”

Dessa's quiet for a little while, and the two of them watch the sun slide westwards. Despite his vantage point, Moriarty isn't looking at the town, instead fixing his gaze on the skies, watching the thin clouds moving swiftly across the expanse of blue, squinting a little. It'll be sunset in a few hours.

“Thanks,” she says.

He gives her a sideways glance. “Eh? For lettin' ya stay here? It was your father's caps.”

“No, for... for telling me. I sort of thought that you'd tried to charge me for that, too.”

“Well,” he says, “I figured that I might as well in throw a little extra.”

She pauses. “I wish I'd met her. My mother.”

“And I wish I had a Brahmin that shit caps, but we don't always get what we want, do we?”

Dessa glares at him. “Don't be an ass.”

“I'm just saying, kiddo, you're not alone. My mother died in Ireland. Never knew mine either.”

“I'm... I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It was a long time ago, lass. I'm an old man.”

“Yeah, but... that doesn't make it any better.”

He smirks. “Feeling pity, lass? For me?”

“No,” she says defensively. “How old are you, anyway?”

He leers at her. “Now _that,_ my dear, is personal information! Why might you be interested in knowing something like that, hm?”

“Maybe I'm planning a birthday party,” she snaps.

He only laughs, and tosses back the last of his beer. “Hm. Well? Where is it?”

“Uhm. What?”

“My party,” Moriarty says, gesturing broadly. “It's my birthday, after all. I'm fifty.”

She raises an eyebrow. _Could be worse._ Jonas, had he survived, wasn't _that_ much younger, and she'd held aspirations of marrying him eventually. “Fifty, hm? Well, happy birthday. I'd give you a present, but, well... looks like I already did.”

He laughs, shaking the bag, and the metal pieces clink against each other. “And a good present it was indeed, lass. Might I expect one hundred caps every year?”

She smirks. “We'll see.”

That gives Moriarty pause, but after a moment he laughs again and shakes his head. He turns to go back inside the saloon, and for one brief instant Dessa feels an urge to stop him. To touch his arm, to hold him there with her longer for just a few more moments. For just a bit, they'd shared something beyond their wary relationship, something friendly, something relaxed.  _If I could just make it last a little bit longer..._

So she kisses him.

It starts with her hand on his forearm, pulling him towards her; then a sidestep, until she's an inch away from pressing her body against his; it's just one tilt forward and her lips are on his, his bristly whiskers against her face.

And the world stops moving.

Old Lady Palmer had always said that there's nothing like your Match. That once you've tasted your Match, nothing is the same. That there's a feeling like you're the only two people in the world, a sensation like your souls colliding. Dessa feels it as a spark, and then a roar; it's nothing like kissing Paul back in the Vault. She has a brief moment where she thinks of Paul's soft teenage lips compared to the cracked skin on Moriarty's mouth, and then she doesn't think anything at all.

Moriarty kisses her back, desperately. When she draws back for air, she's barely allowed a gasp before he backhands her so hard that she nearly flies off the balcony, caught only by the rusty railing.

 _"What the fuck are you doing?"_ he snarls, livid. His hands are shaking, his face beet-red. "You fucking hussy! Get the fuck away from me!"

Dessa's still seeing stars, but this is from the slap, not the kiss. Any bit of attraction she'd felt is gone in the face of this insurmountable rage.

"You think you can trick me with your body?" he hisses. "If I wanted a slut, I'd go fuck Nova. You won't get anything out of me. Now get out of my face."

The door slams.

Dessa takes a deep breath, her cheek stinging, lip split. She can already feel the side of her face swelling up.

_Well. That was..._

Shouldn't he have known who she was by the kiss alone? Wouldn't he have felt the connection?  _It was only a kiss... he didn't need to attack me!_

Carefully, she stands up from where she'd fallen, and stares at the door to the saloon. She can hear Moriarty roaring at Gob through the walls.  _Dammit._ This is the price that she pays for her recklessness. Gob's suffering.

She turns away from the sounds of Gob's gasps and cries of pain, away from the sound of ghoul being pummeled into the floor.  _He's taking it out on his slave. No... what am I supposed to_ do?  _With a Match that hurts innocents and beats women... can I really expect that he would be good to me? Dear God... I can't reveal myself to this man! I can't!_

_But what else can I do? I have no money left, and I can't fight or kill. I'm afraid to leave town._

She slips in the mud at the base of the crater, and falls into the irradiated water surrounding the nuke.

 


	6. The Malady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after a hyperbolic *year* of not putting anything out, here's another chapter, yo. It was 2 chapters but I decided to split it, the next one should be coming shortly.

Dessa can't go back to Moriarty's; not after the kiss. Not after getting slapped into next week. Her face is still swelling up, so much that it's pinching her eyelid, restricting her field of vision. It hurts. It throbs with her heartbeat, and she can feel a pinch of pain from the bruises when they pulse against each other. She stays in the puddled water by the nuke, exhausted and despairing, for a long, long time.

_Now what am I supposed to do?_

She sighs.

“Oh, dear Atom, how blessed are we to have such a devoted follower amongst us!”

Dessa lifts her head, still sitting in the water, but doesn't turn around.

“Are you perhaps attempting to receive his Change, and be born anew?”

With that, Dessa realizes that her Geiger counter is getting dangerously high. She's been sitting in the water for somewhere around ten minutes. She scrambles to get out, unwilling to die at such a young age, but falls face-first into the water and chokes. When the Confessor heaves her out, her nose is dripping blood into the murky water.

“Easy,” Confessor Cromwell says, smiling down at her. “The process should not be rushed. It should be done slowly, with much prayer.”

He deposits her onto the stoop of his little church, but her Geiger counter keeps ticking due to the water soaked into her clothes. She curses dully and strips off her Vault suit, uncaring that she's wearing just a tank top and her panties on underneath; it's better than dying. Her nose is still bleeding.

“My,” Cromwell says, reproving. “Are you feeling that unwell?”

Dessa's answer is to projectile-vomit onto the last step.

“Your body is rejecting Atom's blessing,” Cromwell says sadly. “Your heart is not ready. This is why you must spend many years in prayer before you attempt such a thing.”

“I wasn't trying to... turn into a ghoul,” she rasps. “Just... lost track of what I was doing.”

“You must have some Rad-Away,” Cromwell says, and places a warm hand on her arm. “Maybe a stimpack, as well. The Church disapproves of using such things, but I think you should probably have some, hm? Moira up at Craterside Supply keeps a few bags in stock. Would you like me to help you to her shop?”

“Please,” Dessa says. She slings her wet suit over her shoulder and loops her arm through Cromwell's. The Confessor is warm, feeling like the sun against her skin—but maybe that's just the rads. He seems to be close in age to her father—she's not sure if it's the rads or just the sudden sense of similarity, but she starts crying as Cromwell helps her up the ramps and stairs, and leans on him heavily. Her tears sting her cheek; there's a tiny cut near her eyelid. Probably from Moriarty's fingernail.

“All will be well, child,” he says, and holds the door for her. His eyes are kind, and the laugh lines on his face crinkle as he smiles. “Please come and see me when you're feeling better. I would love nothing more than to guide you towards Atom's light.”

"Th-thank you."

Dessa staggers past the mercenary at the door, and braces herself against Moira's workshop table. The woman herself is sitting in the corner wearing jeweler's glasses, inspecting what looks suspiciously like some kind of uranium compound, but looks up at Dessa's groan.

“Miss Moira,” Cromwell says, “you will look after her, will you not?”

“Oh!” The shopkeeper tears the glasses off and bounds to Dessa's side. “Is this radiation poisoning? Wow, this is so fantastic! I've hardly ever seen such an advanced case!”

Dessa closes her eyes, trying to block out the sudden double-vision. “Mm.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? You see, I'm writing this book...”

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, Dessa has been flushed of radiation. She even gave her a stimpack, fixing the awful bruising on her face, which she is just as grateful for; it hurt like a bitch, but more than that, it was evidence of her shame. A physical reminder that she'd been rejected and beaten. Moira had offered her a few extra bottles and packages of Rad-Away and Rad-X as payment for being 'such a good patient!', but instead, Dessa had asked to swap out the medicine for a few books and schematics. And paper. Lots of paper.

Dessa sits in the shade outside of Craterside Supply with a broken pencil and writes for a long time, occasionally checking over the textbooks and magazines; she flips back and forth between a mapping of Mr. Handy internal mechanisms and an article entitled _Car Engine Repair for the Modern Housewife._ The image of a beautiful young lady with perfectly-curled hair and a huge blue bow tying up her locks makes her shake her head. _Such a long way we've come. A few months ago, I'd have thought that she was the feminine ideal, but now all I can think about is how easily her skin would burn._

Dessa certainly has experience with _that._ Her normally-pale skin is dark red, white threads of dead skin peeling away, and she's barely been in direct sunlight at all. A few hours at most, so far, the entire time she's been out. Maybe ten hours, tops, and she's been out for a few days. The stimpack was injected into her face, but just enough of it has worked down through her skin, fixing the tiny blisters that were there before.

She grunts, then, finishing her sketch, and sets aside the materials. Nods a few times, memorizing the notes. Looks back at the nuke, the sleeping giant in the center of the town.

“Right,” she says. “Let's get to it, then.”

Armed with a single butter knife that she'd lifted off of the common house, she wades back into the water, then grunting as she wraps her arms around the bomb and drags herself onto the top. The settler tending to his Brahmin by the doctor's office gives her a wary look, but doesn't say a word, just shakes his head and rakes out more hay for the beast.

She ignores him, instead focusing on the steel panel between the fins of the bomb; there are a few Chinese characters that she can't read, and she wonders, as she works at the screws with her knife, what they mean. Maybe they were named? She remembers from her history lessons that the original atomic bombs, dropped during the Second World War, were named Fat Man and Little Boy. She imagines names as she works, but none of them sound as iconic; she thinks about other famous bombs, such as Russia's _Tsar Bomba,_ another horrifically-stupid name, but a far more deadly weapon. A deadlier weapon than the original atomic bombs. And one that was set off over one hundred years before the War.

She tries not to think about how much more potent _this_ one could be.

Dessa has to pause at one point, and begs off a little bit of cooking oil from Mrs. Vargas to use as lubricant; the screws and plating is stuck fast from rust.

Another half hour, and the casing finally comes off. She tosses the panel off to the side, near the Church, and leans over to look into the bomb. Simultaneously less complicated and more terrifying than she expected, there's about a foot of space with a few wires, and then deeper inside, a twist-and-lock core, double-secured with four latches.

She grimaces. She could cut the wires, and it might blow up in her face, or she could forgo those, remove the uranium, and pull out the explosive material. But if she goes for the latter, then there's the chance of dying as she's handling the charges, or dying because of some kind of anti-tampering device that sets off the bomb if she pulls out the core (she's never heard of something like that, but she can very well imagine the Chinese using it).

She takes a few moments to look over the hardware before clipping a wire, and when nothing happens, she clips the rest and twists the ends of the wires away from each other. Last thing she needs is to bump something and set it off anyway.

The latches go next, and then she heaves at the core—nothing.

 _Ah, crap._ She checks around the seam, finding nothing hindering its release, and groans. Either it's rusted shut, or it's too heavy for her to lift out.

She _could_ go back to Lucas Simms and tell him that her job was done, but in all honesty she's not comfortable with what must be over one hundred pounds of explosive material in the center of town. Not if she's going to be living here, anyway.

Dessa slackens the grip of her thighs on the bomb and slides off, grimacing at the sensation of her toes squishing in the radioactive mud; she stalks away from the bomb, looking around in irritation. _If I can't get that core out, then surely I can find someone to do it for me. For a cut of the reward, maybe. Simms_ did _promise me something good if I could get it disarmed... how much was it again? One hundred caps? Two hundred?_

Her eyes wander around, but she doesn't see anyone powerfully-built enough to help her out. She's thinking that it's around one hundred pounds, maybe more. She can lift her own body weight, but not at _that_ awkward angle, hunched over the tail-fins of a ten-thousand pound explosive.

She spots Simms, and wonders for a moment if he might help her. She jogs the last few steps. “Hey, Sheriff, can I ask you a-”

He turns. “Sorry, kid. I'm working out some town business.”

Her eyes flick to the man standing beside him, and steps back, grimacing. She'd been so focused on trying to get his attention that she hadn't noticed the other guy until he turned his head. In her defense, he's not a very noticeable person from the side; he has a respectful, unassuming air about him, and he's dressed like every other wastelander she's seen.

But when he turns his head, she flinches and covers her mouth.

Standing before her is the most hideous person she has ever seen in her entire life.

 

 


	7. The Macabre

 

 

“I just can't allow it,” Simms is saying to the awful stranger. “I'm sorry.”

_A ghoul._

She's gotten much more used to seeing Gob, but this is different; this ghoul has more of a greenish tint, and smells stronger, the stench of rot reeking from his corpse-body. Dessa bites her lip and tries not to cringe away. He's _gross._ Way worse than Gob. His face is wider and soft-looking, like it would break into soft pieces of flesh if touched, as if it would fall apart upon impact like the musty flesh of a mushroom cap. He looks bloated underneath his bandolier jacket, like a stinking body decomposing and filling with shit and gases out in the burning sun.

“Look,” the ghoul says, and Dessa notices his hand, clutching his right arm. Blood is streaked down his clothes, still dripping onto the dusty earth. “Please, just five minutes in front of the nuke, and I'll be out of your town. I wouldn't ask it if I didn't truly need it.”

“I have no problem with your kind,” Simms replies, “but I'm Sheriff of the town, and I can't allow any ghouls inside, not in good conscience. One ghoul in Megaton is enough. Last thing we need is for ghouls to start treating this town like a rest stop.”

“It's okay,” Dessa says, touching Simms' arm, trying not to gag. She doesn't know why at first that she wants to help him, only that she feels guilty for not helping Gob. Maybe if she does something for _this_ ghoul, her conscience will be appeased. “I'll watch him.”

The Sheriff frowns.

“You... you will?” the ghoul asks, eyes widening. He grins, and it's not the macabre expression she was expecting. It's nicer and happier than Gob's weak, wary smiles, and something about it puts her at ease.

“Mm,” she says, more firmly, and glances at Simms. “I'm actually working on the bomb right now. I think he can help me out. That way both of us get what we want.”

“Hm...” Simms muses, and then nods. “Alright. If it's worth it to you. Just make sure he leaves as soon as he's done.”

The ghoul looks positively ecstatic. He pumps her hand eagerly as the Sheriff walks away, and although she flinches, he doesn't notice, too caught up in his exuberant thanks. “The name's Quinn!” he says cheerfully. “Thanks a lot, ma'am! Er... sorry. I guess I got blood on you.”

Dessa eyes her palm distastefully before saying, “It's no problem.”

She leads them down to the nuke, and washes her hands off in the water surrounding it. “So, Quinn, can I ask you a few questions?”

“Yeah, sure,” the ghoul says, taking off his shoes. Dessa frowns; he's missing several toes. He proceeds to roll up his pants and wade into the water, sighing audibly as the rads soak into his skin. The ghoul rolls his shoulders, relaxing. “Ah, that feels good.”

“How'd you get hurt?”

“Hm?” Quinn looks down at the wound in his arm and shrugs. “Raiders.”

Dessa supposed that was answer enough. “You get attacked often?”

“Hell, who doesn't? At least the ferals leave me alone.”

“They do?”

Quinn looks at her, startled, and laughs. “You haven't been out much, have you?”

“A few times,” she admits. She doesn't mention her terror of leaving the town, doesn't mention the Vault. Too complicated to explain to new acquaintances. “I haven't met many ghouls though.”

“Hm,” Quinn says. “Well, I'm from Underworld, a town made up of ghouls and nothin' else. I work for them as a scavenger and a trader, going out to look for what we need... Tulip's been going on about a style of dress that a seamstress in Erie was putting out, and I decided to head north to see if I could find any caravans that might have it.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Should have known not to stray too far.”

“Well,” Dessa says, “you're safe now.”

He smiles again. “Must say, the nuke is working pretty well. A few more minutes, and I'll be good as new. What do you want me to do with it, anyway?”

“I'm removing the explosives,” Dessa explains. “But I'm not strong enough to lift the core out. Think you could manage that?”

“I'll certainly try.” Quinn flexes his arm, then unzips his jacket and tosses it to the side. It falls with a surprisingly loud crash, the sound of bullets and bottles and caps and countless other small baubles clashing together in the myriad pockets of his coat. He's left in an off-white undershirt with dark sweat stains.

He's more muscular than Dessa expected, not bloated at all, but fit and toned despite the burns and sagging rot. She cringes at the sight of the loose skin hanging off of his bicep, connected by a few threads. He could tear away his dead skin in handfuls; it turns her stomach. She's glad that Gob doesn't rot like this.

Quinn pulls himself onto the nuke with far more grace than she had, then peers in at the core. “I see what you mean. This handle, here, do I just pull that?”

“Mm.”

He angles himself over the entrance, bracing himself against the fins, and _pulls._ Dessa bites her lip, watching, and her eyebrows lift when she sees it start to emerge. At long last, Quinn drops it with a grunt, and then drops down on top of it.

“It was rusty,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “Probably why you had trouble with it.”

“How heavy do you think it is?” Dessa asks.

“Eh... about... two hundred pounds?”

“Wow, and you pulled it out that easily?”

“Ghouls are stronger than humans,” he says, shrugging. He lifts the core by its handle and props it on his shoulder. “Where do you want this?”

She eyes him, wary of the increased ticking of her Geiger counter. Without anything shielding the radiation, it's increased tenfold. She's getting about ten rads per second with him just six feet away.

“Take it out of the town and sit it out back for now,” she says. “We don't need anyone dying from how potent that thing is; I'm going to take out the explosives, and then you can stick it back inside once I'm done.”

Quinn seems surprised. “You're leaving it there?”

Dessa shrugs. “The Church of Atom worships it.”

He grunts, and changes his grip. “Eh. Yeah, I've heard of them,” he mutters. “Aren't they... a bit...”

“Strange, I know,” Dessa agrees. “But kind. Their Confessor saved my life.”

In a few hours, Dessa has explained to Quinn her circumstances, and they've successfully neutralized the bomb. He seems sympathetic to her, as they haul pound after pound of explosives out of Megaton, and even offers to bring her some purified water that he found in an abandoned raider base that he'd passed earlier that day.

“Why is it that ghouls have been so nice to me?” she wonders as he slots the nuclear core back into the bomb. “Both you and Gob...”

“Gob?” Quinn's head jerks up. “You know Gob? Where the hell is he?”

“Moriarty's,” she says, frowning. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Gob, yes,” he says. “He lived in Underworld for years.”

“He's never mentioned it...”

“Probably a sore subject,” Quinn says, “if he's stuck here. Which, I'm assuming he is?”

“He's indebted,” Dessa says. “I wish I could do something to help him, but...”

She doesn't mention her Mark, the power she holds over Moriarty. But there's no guarantee that it would actually help Gob or not, and she's not going to risk it if she doesn't have to. She won't risk losing everything if she can hold out and _really_ save him.

Anger sparks and burns in her again, thinking about Moriarty, how he'd slapped her, how he'd beaten Gob. She's scared to go back to the saloon, terrified to see her Match again, but far more afraid to see exactly what he's done to Gob.

_Hold on. Just hold on..._

She shakes her head. “Come with me, Quinn. I'll give you some of my reward for defusing the bomb.”

“You don't have to,” he protests. “Sounds like you need all the caps you can get.”

“I insist,” she says, and smiles triumphantly when Simms tips his hat as they approach the gates. “Hey there, Sheriff. It's all done. Only thing we have left to do is blow those explosives, and the town is completely safe from that nuke.”

“I'll send Stockholm to set 'em off, then. No sense in leaving that much power around for anyone to get their hands on.” He shakes his head in amazement. “I never would have believed it if I hadn't watched you do it. And with a ghoul, no less.”

“I wouldn't have been able to do it without him,” Dessa says. “Maybe you should let more of them in.”

He chuckles, though it seems to be more of a _yeah, you wish, don't you_ rather than one of actual amusement. “Alright, girlie, you've earned it. One hundred caps, as promised, and one other thing. I know you've been struggling a bit, but with how much you've helped our town, I think you deserve a break. Here's a key to that empty house beside Jericho's place. You take care of it, now.”

Her eyes widen. “Are... are you serious?”

“I am,” he says. “I think you're a good investment.”

“I won't argue with that,” she says, taking the key in wonder. _A key. My own place. I won't ever have to go to the common house or try to stay in Moriarty's Saloon..._ A shiver goes up her spine. _Moriarty. I... I don't need him anymore. If I have my own house... I might not have food or water, but if Quinn keeps coming around, he can bring me fresh water, and I could try having a rooftop garden..._

_I don't need him at all._

She grins. “Thanks, Sheriff. This helps more than you could ever imagine.”

“You're welcome,” he says, seeming pleased.

“One more thing,” she says, glancing at Quinn. “I was thinking of giving him some of my caps, but... you think maybe you'd let him come into town to trade and sit by the nuke whenever he wants? You owe him just as much as you owe me.”

Simms' expression sours as quickly as it had brightened. “Well... I guess I can allow that. Just... don't go causing _trouble,_ ghoul. You cause any problems, and you'll never come here again. And trust me, it won't be me layin' down the law. Jericho and Moriarty both hate ghouls as much as the next man, and the doc won't do a thing to patch you up if one of them leaves you bleeding.”

“I don't have any issues with your kind,” Quinn says placatingly. “You won't hear a peep from me.”

“I'd better not,” the sheriff growls, and turns on his heel, biting down on his back molars.

“That went well,” Dessa mutters. “Hey. I haven't thanked you properly yet, Quinn. How about this: instead of the caps, I let you stay in my house for the night? It's getting pretty late, and I doubt you want to be walking home with all the yao guai and Super Mutants prowling around in the dark.”

“You... you mean it?”

She shrugs. “I'm not sure how the accommodations are, but it's got to be better than anything outside, right?”

“You're a real blessing, Des,” he says, relieved. “I'm sure not going to turn down the invitation. I don't mind if there isn't a bed, I've slept on my coat more times that I can count.”

Dessa nods, not about to argue with him; her back aches from not sleeping in a bed, and she shudders at the memory of trying to sleep in the armchair with the threadbare blankets. The stale air, the nighttime shuffling. _I'm never going back to that place._

Dessa lets Quinn exclaim over the Mr. Handy that is roaming the house, and explores her new home while the robot and the ghoul chat. She finds a chest of worn linens underneath the creaky bedframe upstairs, and unrolls a thick duvet for him to sleep on. The mattress is bare, but she finds a set of buttercup-yellow sheets, and puts a coverlet over top. There's a grungy pillow that she keeps for herself, thinner than she'd like, and heads downstairs with her finds, remembering Quinn's comment about using his coat for a pillow.

 "This is a really wonderful place you've got here," he says admiringly.

"Thank you," Dessa says, and frowns. "A bit big for one person, though. I'm glad I have Wadsworth to clean it all for me, or I'd spend all my time trying to dust the ceiling."

Quinn laughs. "I'm sure you could find a better use for your time, but I see your point. You're lucky. Underworld doesn't have this much space; the poor of our town sleep in the main hall, out in the open. It sure is a nice change to get to rest someplace quiet and alone for once. Does a person good to get away, sometimes."

"Mm," Dessa agrees, and thinks of her Vault longingly. Of her father, still lost to her, of her dear friend Amata, even of Butch, who she'd desperately despised for so many years. She'd give anything to have that life back. To not dream of old men with white hair and an Irish brogue, to not have to worry about soulmates and Marks and kisses and rejection. To not think about slaves and masters. To not have to wish for respect.

If Moriarty respected her, would he have slapped her? Maybe, maybe not. He might have done it out of surprise and panic, or it could have been because he thought she was so unequal that he could treat her as he pleased.

He doesn't know who she really is, that their Marks stitch them together with a thread far more durable than anything that exists in this earthly realm, that she's the woman he's been waiting for his entire life.

What will he say when he finds out? Will he be horrified? Will he apologize?

Dessa knows that he will, but she also realizes that she doesn't want the only reason for Moriarty to respect her to be because of  _himself._ Because of something outside her control, because of something that is already his. She doesn't want to be property, or some sort of status symbol. She doesn't want to belong to Moriarty. She wants to be his equal, wants to help him, and most of all, she wants to change him.

Her eyes widen, and she snaps her fingers.

"What?" Quinn asks, startled, halfway through folding up his coat. "Is something wrong?"

"Quinn," she says, "do you know anything about business?"

"Uhm, a little, why?"

She tells him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it's dragging a little, but I promise it'll pick up in the next chapter!


	8. The Motel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dessa's plans come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws update and runs*

The morning dawns bleak and cloudy in Megaton, and by the time Dessa finally makes her way to the center of town, the sun is peeking out through the clouds now and then. It's a bitter mockery, to see the wisps of condensation far above their heads; Dessa has learned by now how rarely it rains in the Capitol Wasteland. Even acid rain is eagerly awaited; at least it's water. 

“Jenny,” Dessa says, leaning against the countertop of the Stahl's outdoor venue. “Good morning for you so far?”

“Well enough,” Jenny says, shrugging. “I heard about that ghoul you left in.”

“He left this morning,” Dessa says, guessing that the other woman is trying to tactfully express her reservations.

“Ah. I see,” Jenny says noncommittally.

Dessa shifts awkwardly, glancing at the morning traffic to their right. Billy Creel is leaning against the wall nearby, acting as if he isn't listening, and she finds her gaze flicking back to the crescent shape on Jenny's cheek. _Her Mark._ Dessa can see that lengths have been made to hide it, a little bit of pre-War concealer rubbed in, but it's not enough. The mark is too dark, as brown as the mud near the newly-deactivated nuke.

Everyone knows that her and Jericho are soulmates. _Is she really so ashamed of it?_ Dessa thinks she might understand. If she were in her situation, she might be tempted to cut the Mark right out of her face.

Dessa's Mark, though, is in a place where few would ever look.

“I need your help,” she says.

“Mine?” Jenny raises her eyebrows, carefully sliding a hand over her coiffed hair, pulling it away from her face. “Depends on the favor. I've got a family to support.”

“I think,” Dessa says carefully, “that you'll find it to be mutually beneficial.”

Jenny's mouth quirks at this, and for the first time in their conversation, she looks towards Billy. _So she knew he was there._ Dessa wonders at this, at their quiet distance. Gob had said that they were dating, but... “What do you think?”

Billy studies her, shrugs.

Jenny looks back and nods. “Go on.”

Deep breath.

“I want to put Moriarty out of business.”

Jenny chokes on whatever answer she had prepared, her eyes widening, and then laughs outright. “Moriarty? Are you serious? You think _you_ could do anything to that asshole? The man's business is impenetrable. Trust me, we've tried everything we can to drive him out of town.”

“Even after Andy spread all those rumors about Moriarty pissing in the still,” Billy adds glumly. “It definitely put a damper on business, but not for long.”

“Whores will do that,” Jenny remarks dryly. “One luxury we can't—and _don't—_ want to afford.”

_Well, good for them._

Dessa snorts. “I know. I said I _want_ to put Moriarty out of business, not that I'll actually be able to do it. But I can at least give him a hard time, and I think I can be satisfied with that.”

Billy laughs, and then trails off when he sees how serious she is. “Shit.”

“Well, what's your plan, then, kiddo?” Jenny asks, crossing her arms.

“I have a house now,” Dessa starts, “and it's pretty nice. Two stories, my own Mr. Handy, two bedrooms, and a kitchen. I want to rent out the room and advertise as a bed and breakfast.”

She pauses, watching Jenny, and continues, “I want to market as an upscale establishment. Clean the rust off of everything, add some polish and nice fixtures, and offer competitive pricing to Moriarty's outrageous fees. Seventy caps a night, with breakfast in the morning... provided by the Brass Lantern. Which means free advertising for you, and I'm definitely willing to pay you for the meals, as long as you give me a discounted price.”

“Hm,” Jenny muses. “That... could work. The biggest problem people have here in Megaton with business is finding enough space. But you're right. It sounds like you have a nice place, and it's right at the entrance; first thing anyone's gonna see. Tired travelers aren't gonna want to walk all the way over to Moriarty's if there's a bed closer, unless they're there for the whoring.”

“Which,” Billy says, “a lot of people _will_ be there for.”

“Still,” Dessa says, “Moriarty charges whether Nova _services_ them or not. Straight women are going to be much more likely to want to board with me than with _him.”_

“I doubt that's the last of what you want to ask me about,” Jenny says, and the pair of them begin to hash out the finer details. The delivery times for breakfast, tips on business presentation and advertising, and Jenny even asks Billy to trek out into the wastes to find a board and some paint that Dessa could use to make her sign. By the end of the day, they have something like a bed and breakfast set up, and so the three of them approach Sheriff Simms for permission to open a business.

“You know Moriarty isn't going to be happy about this,” Simms says, looking at them overtop the paperwork he's holding.

“Screw Moriarty,” Billy says, surprising Dessa. “We need some more business in this town. A little bit of class could be just what this town needs.”

“Well, as long as you know what you're getting into,” Simms says, and signs the paperwork. “Keep the deed of business on hand. Remember that you have to follow the cleanliness standards within. Shouldn't be too hard, with that Mr. Handy on staff.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Billy hammers the signpost into the dirt beside her house right before dusk. It's big, bold, eye-catching. Dessa is vindictively pleased that it's more visible than Moriarty's sign from the entrance. In curling yellow script bordered with poppy-red paint, it proclaims _Odessa's B &B. _There wasn't enough paint or room to write out anything else, but it's pretty, and she's proud of it.

The living room still isn't very welcoming, but Dessa works on that to try to wind down from the adrenaline building throughout the day. Wadsworth helps her quietly, humming now and then; she hadn't expected robotic company to be so pleasant. He's certainly better than the Mr. Handy in the Vault. Together, they manage to polish out the worst of the rust, and fill it in with scraps of metal that Quinn had given her before he left.

 _I'll have to fix the drapes,_ she muses. _That'll be the first thing to do, I think. The bed linens are all lovely, I won't have to purchase any extras yet... but what about the kitchen?_ She wonders if she should tear it out and have Wadsworth use the material for repairs, to solder into the walls and floor. The stove isn't that necessary, not with Jenny helping her out, but... then again, she doesn't want to ever have to be reliant on anyone again.

The stove stays, for now.

The floors are newly repaired and shining, and Dessa knows that she'll need a carpet to put down at some point as well, especially if she wants to convince people that this is an upscale establishment. Still, there are no cracks or holes in the walls, and the living room is rust-free, so she considers that a step in the right direction.

The sign hasn't been up for more than thirty minutes when there's a heavy banging at her door.

“Visitor, madam,” Wadsworth says cheerfully. “Shall I go see who it is?”

“By all means,” Dessa replies. A brief smile quirks her lips; she knows who's on the other side of the door. Taken by a moment of inspiration, she pulls the lone wooden chair from the kitchen, places it in the living room, and sits.

“You!” Moriarty seethes, and Dessa crosses her legs.

“Me,” she replies. For a moment they stare at each other, and Dessa knows that she's made her point clear; she's in the only available seat, her own domain, with the buzz-saw-handed Wadsworth puttering off to the side. She's the one with the power here.

Moriarty's jaw works. “How dare you open a lodge here! And I heard you were only charging seventy caps?”

“Who told you that?”

“Billy Creel,” he spits. “Came up to the saloon to brag about it. What kinda fuckin' game are you playin' at, lass? Is this because of... yesterday? Don't be a fool. You should know by now, I'm not the sort you want to make an enemy of.”

“I don't want to be enemies,” Dessa says. She means it. She  _wants_ peace between the two of them. But with Moriarty's combative personality, his arrogance and cruelty, she can't just accede to him, to be his doormat. She's his Match; she's going to be worthy of him, to be the kind of woman who can win his respect without artifice. And he needs to be worthy of her. She  _needs_ him to free Gob and Nova first, and she wants him to do it on his own terms, rather than to just humor his newly-found Match out of a sense of relief that she just  _exists._ That sort of gratitude doesn't last. He needs to decide for himself.

And Dessa? Dessa doesn't really have a way to survive, save for this.

“Oh?” he mocks.

“I'll close this whole place down,” Dessa says, and Moriarty's eyes flicker. “I'll even burn the sign and everything. On several conditions.”

Moriarty is silent for a few moments, stewing. “Fine. Name them.”

Dessa raises a hand, counting off her terms. “One: you'll free Gob." She watches his face redden slightly, sees the irritation in the lines of his face. She can see his stubbornness kicking in. _He won't agree._ She doesn't expect him to. "You'll let him go back to Underworld. Two: you'll release Nova from service. You'll never hire a prostitute to work at your saloon again. And three: you'll forgive the debts of everyone in town.”

He explodes. “This is insanity!”

“Those are my conditions.”

Moriarty seems to fight himself for control, then bares his teeth in a smile. “You don't want to do this, lassie.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

“Then I'm afraid you don't know my reputation well enough,” he says, and Dessa shivers at the coldness of his words. She hides her discomfort, straightening her back, and refuses to avert her eyes. The pair of them stare at each other for several long moments, and then Moriarty turns for the door.

“By the week is out, lass,” he says, “you'll be wishing that yer mum never had a cunt to spit ya out of.”


	9. The Middleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty plans his revenge, and Dessa gets a new visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is here thanks to Cocoa (the commenter) who helps keep me motivated.
> 
> Also, thanks to cocoa (the food/beverage) which does not comment and instead makes me fat, but still also motivates me because it's fantastic.

When Moriarty returns to the saloon, he's _fuming._ Even angrier than when Billy Creel had offhandedly mentioned the new sign outside of Dessa's house, although it was easy to see that the scavenger was trying to hide a smirk as he spoke. _Damn him._ If he hadn't stopped by, hadn't thrown it in Moriarty's face, he might not be as furious as he is now. About as angry as Gob has ever seen him, although it's a brooding sort of fury, which is a bad of a sign as any.

Gob is careful to stay out of the Irishman's way. Least it's easier this time. He's more in a mood to pace and think instead of beat the piss out of a ghoul. Last time Moriarty was this pissed, he got the shit beat out of him. Nothing that an hour by the nuke wouldn't cure, but still—he can remember the sharp agony of his broken arm vividly.

It doesn't take a genius to see that Dessa gets under his skin like no other. It's obvious, now that he knows the truth, that there's a connection between the two. He's not sure what made him so angry the last time, but he finds it interesting that he's so sensitive to his Match, despite not knowing who she is.

“I'm worried about the kid,” Nova says, joining him at the bar, and Gob stiffens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her breasts push against the confines of her bra as she leans forward. She smells like stale sweat and sex and a trace of musky cologne. _Speaking of getting under one's skin..._ Gob's heart aches for her. Getting tossed from man to man like a whore... she is, but Gob knows that this isn't the life she would have chosen for herself. She deserves better than this, and it hurts to see her every time after she's with a _client._

 _At least she isn't hurt this time,_ he muses, and turns to her. He's seen her emerge from her bedroom with a black eye too many times. “You mean Dessa?”

Nova's eyes are fixed to a distant point. “Mm. I don't envy her. Baiting Colin like that? It's a dangerous game. Silver did it too, and look what happened to her.”

“This is different,” Gob says. “After all, Silver's dead. Moriarty said that Dessa killed her.”

“No shit.” Nova straightens. “Really?”

Gob shrugs.

“Well, maybe she has more of a chance, then. But not much of one. This is an awful lot more than a bit of sass and theft. Moriarty's not gonna let this go.”

 _She doesn't think that maybe..._ Gob taps his finger once, thinking, and then sighs. No matter what he promised Dessa, he won't risk her dying.

“Look,” he says quietly. “If you hear Moriarty say anything about putting out a hit on her, anything like that, stop him. Please. The two of them, they're Matched. He doesn't know yet.”

Nova's eyes widen. “No _shit.”_

“I saw the Mark myself,” he admits.

Slowly, Nova's eyebrows raise. “She showed you?”

He doesn't miss her skeptical tone, and looks away, blushing. “We had gotten into a conversation about Matches, and, well... ours were in a similar place, so... I wanted to know if...”

“Oh, Gob,” Nova sighs. Her expression is sympathetic as she reaches for his hand; his fingers twitch under her grip. _How often has she touched me?_ It's not enough. He reflects that if he ever gets out of this bar, he's never going to take simple physical affection for granted ever again. “You'll find her someday. I'm sure of it. Moriarty isn't gonna live forever.”

 _And how long will I be waiting for that?_ he wonders. _Five years? Ten years? Twenty? Is that something I should be looking forward to, when he's Dessa's Match?_

He slumps. _Dessa had better have an awful good plan._

 

* * *

 

Dessa does not have a good plan.

Looking over her budget book, she frowns and chews at her lower lip. _I seriously cannot be out of caps already._ But there's no mistaking the ugly minus sign that she keeps getting at the bottom of her page. She owes Moira twenty-nine caps. _Guess I'm not eating tonight..._

It's only been fifteen days, and her business is in the red. Still, she's been fairly successful so far. She's had a guest most nights, as well as resounding compliments. And despite Moriarty's threats, it's been a little over two weeks and she hasn't seen a thing from him. It makes her nervous that he's been so quiet, but maybe... maybe he's had time to cool down and think. Maybe a part of him realizes that Dessa is something special to him, even if he doesn't know what it is yet, and that's why he hasn't done anything to hurt her.

Maybe, but probably not. A girl can hope though.

Unfortunately, in efforts to spruce up the accommodations a little more, she's overspent her caps. She'd told Moira that she'd pay her back today, and here she doesn't have a single cap left. Sure, she could always sell off some of the decorations she's already bought, but what good would that do? She'd only have to buy some new ones again.

The knock at the door brings her to her feet, and she brushes nonexistent wrinkles out of her new skirt before approaching the entrance. Wanting to look the part of a charming hostess, a change of clothes was the last thing she'd purchased before finding out that she was in the red. A sweeping black tulle skirt and a soft pink blouse complete her appearance, the black matching the severity of her pale skin and drawn features, the pink bringing color and girlish charm.

 _If only Moriarty could see me now._ Bastard. Fixing a bright smile upon her face, Dessa opens the door.

“Hello, welcome to Odessa's,” she says, and frowns. “You're a ghoul.”

He is, in fact, a ghoul, but he doesn't scowl at her blunt statement. He's a tall and cheerful-looking man, his skin dry and husky, with a smile that pulls at the cracked leather of his cheeks. Black hair hangs in patches, but his clothes are well-fitted, if dirty from the wastes.

“Name's Joss,” he says. His voice has a thick southern drawl, and Dessa finds herself charmed despite her surprise. She's never heard an accent like his, not in real life. The holo-vids in the Vault had shown her what different dialects had sounded like, but this is the first time she's heard a southern accent in person. “You have a vacancy? The sheriff recommended you.”

“Please, come in,” Dessa says quickly, stepping back. “I do, but... you spoke to Sheriff Simms? He's alright with you being here? I don't mean to be rude, I have nothing against ghouls, but...”

Joss gives a little half-smile and a nod, showing her he understands her meaning. “Sheriff doesn't know me, but I'm from a settlement down south that he's been to once or twice. Came with a letter from them, and seems like that was good enough for him.”

Well, that makes more sense. She can't imagine that Simms is too happy about the arrangement, but if it's someone he knows and trusts... Moreover, if they have traders that visit Megaton, he's not going to risk upsetting them.

“I wanted to bunk at a place where I wouldn't have to support...” Joss pauses, waves a hand. “Corruption. Prostitution. Slavery. Take your pick.”

“You know Moriarty, then,” she says.

“I know of him,” Joss replies. “You could say we've exchanged words. Why I'm here, actually. I've been sent to discuss trade agreements on behalf of Ashland's trading association.”

“I haven't heard much about other settlements,” Dessa admits. “There's a place that's big enough to support something like that?”

“We weren't hit as hard,” Joss tells her. “Alexandria's filled with muties and ferals, but Ashland's been somewhat reclaimed. Lots of fences, lots of guns, and a hell of a lot of work, but it's still standing. Pardon the language, ma'am.”

She blinks. _If Ashland is doing that well, then why is he here?_ But she doesn't ask. It's really none of her business.

“How long will you be staying?”

“Nine days,” he says, and Dessa fights back a smirk. _Take that, Moriarty!_ By the time Joss leaves, she's going to be swimming in caps. Automatically, she starts calculating her earnings. _Seventy caps per night, times nine nights..._ that's six hundred and thirty caps, yes!

Joss seems to have noticed the way her eyes glazed over, because he clears his throat and says, “I'm willing to pay half now, put it down as a deposit. Keep you from worrying about turnin' down other folks who might want to stay in this charming house of yours.”

Dessa laughs. “Thank you, I'm fine with that.”

Remembering her manners— _damn, this place really has made me rough, hasn't it?—_ she asks, “May I take your coat?”

“Mm. Thank you, ma'am,” he says, shrugging it off—underneath his leathers, he's wearing a sweaty collared shirt; Dessa eyes it, wondering if she'll be able to convince him to let her do his laundry. It's the least she can do, with him staying nine days long. Besides, few things smell worse than a sweaty ghoul. She knows that well enough from her brief but memorable close proximity to both Gob and Quinn.

Falling back to her recitation of the bed and breakfast's various amenities, Dessa leads him around the house, introducing him to Wadsworth, shows him to the bedroom. He is suitably impressed by the carved oak bedframe that Dessa had splurged her caps upon, and lets out a small hum of approval at the intact glass window and the blue cotton curtains. It looks like something from a pre-War magazine, and Dessa wonders if he's old enough to remember those days. Withered fingers brush over the tucked in sheets, and Dessa privately thinks that he must.

Her suspicions are proved correct, then, because as she tells him that "I'm going to be right next door if you need anything during the night, but throughout the rest of the day I'll be downstairs...", she realizes that he isn't listening anymore. Instead, his milky eyes are fixed on the window, and after further inspection, she sees that he's staring directly at the thin line of the window where it is cracked open by less than a half inch.

"Joss?" she says tentatively. No response; he's entirely clocked out.

The curtains ruffle in the wind.

"Joss?"

He turns, with a smile. "Sorry," he says. "Just lost in memories."

 

 

 


	10. The Mathematics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, five minutes ago: "man I need to write more to get this update out"
> 
> me, just now: "oh wait, I already finished it."

When Gob sees Dessa walk into the saloon with another ghoul, his eyes narrow.

Not with jealousy— _though, if he's being honest, he_ is, _just a bit—_ but he's a little suspicious. The sight of him leaves a bad taste in his mouth, and for a moment he wonders if he's gotten so used to looking at smoothskins that he hates the sight of a ghoul. Making him like everyone else, like the bigots surrounding himself. Which would be a fucking joke, wouldn't it? But no, he knows that this can't be the case, because he would quite honestly cut off a leg to be able to see his mother again. There's nothing that could make him believe that someone as sweet and selfless and darling as his mother Carol could be ugly. Not when she radiates love, not when she adopted him within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him.

“Well,” Dessa says to him, “here it is.”

“It doesn't look like Moriarty's here, though,” the ghoul says. His eyes land on Gob and stick there. He bristles at the other man's focus.

Dessa catches his sudden switch in attention, and smiles broadly at him. “Hey there! Joss, this is Gob. Gob, Joss. He's staying with me at the bed and breakfast! Nine whole days! Hey, maybe you two have met before. Gob used to live in Underworld. You ever been through there, Joss?”

“Can't say I have,” the ghoul—Joss—says. He studies Gob a little longer, then offers what Gob thinks is meant to be a friendly smile. Doesn't feel that way to him, though. Wrongness radiates off of him in waves. “Always a pleasure to meet another ghoul, though.”

They shake hands. Gob's lip pulls back instinctively.

“We're looking for Moriarty,” Dessa says. She doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, which only serves to annoy him further. “Joss has business with him.”

“Oh,” Gob says, relieved for some strange reason, and he wonders at himself. _This has got to be the first time that I've wanted to see that bastard's face._ But Joss rubs him the wrong way, makes his skin prickle. And he _hates_ it. He doesn't want to see Dessa next to him. Moriarty's presence would be added security.

“He's in his office,” he says, jerking his head towards the closed door. “Uh, I'll... let him know you're here.”

He's not supposed to bother Moriarty when he's working on his paperwork or books, but he'll make an exception for this situation. He's done that a few times before, in real emergencies (he thinks back to the time that he heard Nova's muffled screams as she was brutally raped; when there was that trader who had his throat slit in the middle of the bar) and Moriarty had never done anything to him then. He might be irritated or confused as to why Gob's bothering him for something this small, but hopefully he won't take it out on him.

Gob would rate this instance's _importance_ as right smack in the middle of the other two.

“Mr. Moriarty, sir,” he growls at the door, after he's knocked. “Someone here to see you.”

“A minute,” he says pleasantly, and within about twenty seconds, the door is open.

Gob shuffles backwards. “Him,” he says, unnecessarily.

But instead of that all-too-familiar expression of thinly-veiled irritation, Moriarty's face brightens a little. It sours when he notes Dessa beside the ghoul, but he ignores her for now. “Ah, Mr. Joss, isn't it? I got a letter about you.”

“Ashland sent me up,” he confirms, and the two men shake hands; Moriarty accepts without a hint of distaste. Gob is amazed that he's able to put aside his intense bigotry, but maybe he shouldn't be. It's all for the sake of caps, after all.

“Let's discuss this in my office,” Moriarty suggests, and then Gob and Dessa are alone.

There's a short silence, where Gob struggles to think of what to say. He's taken off-balance by her coming in with a man, and a ghoul of all things, in a town where they're not accepted; he wonders if that's part of the reason why he's feeling so off-kilter. Like as if he's got his mama's butter churn inside of him and it's stirring his insides.

But no. Instead of taking a little more time, instead of thinking it over a little more, he snaps, “Are you serious? _He's_ staying with you for _nine days?”_

Dessa's face brightens, his emphasis taken differently than he'd meant. “I know, right? It's amazing! I never imagined I'd have someone willing to pay me that much! You'd think he'd just take the common house if he's going to be here for that long... but... I guess with him being a ghoul, he can't exactly trust everyone else...”

Her voice trails off.

Fuck, it hurts to see her so concerned.

“I'm not worried about him,” Gob says, “I'm worried about you. Who the hell is he? You don't know anything about him! He could be a lunatic! And he's staying with you for over a week?”

_Plus, he's friends with Moriarty._

“And your room is right beside his. Do you even have a lock on your door?”

“Of course I do,” Dessa retorts. “I'm not clueless.”

“Still. Dessa—”

“You weren't upset when I had all those other boarders! Most of them were men, too!”

“And none of them were staying for nine days!”

“Gob.” Her voice goes low and quiet. “I am not having this conversation. Especially not five feet away from them.”

...Right. He'd forgotten about that. He's... not exactly sure how soundproof the door is; he'd been speaking in a low voice to start with, but he's probably substantially increased in volume. He eyes the office door, then steps away from it. “Sorry.”

Dessa sighs and scrubs at her face. “You have any cold Nuka-Colas?”

He does. He keeps one in the mini-fridge most times, knowing that there's a chance she might drop by, to see him, if not her Match. “Five caps.”

He wishes he could get away with charging her less, but, then again, he has no idea when Moriarty's going to find out about the two of them. He understands why she won't say anything, really, but after nearly a month of silence, it seems a little juvenile to be keeping it from him. Goodness knows her life would be easier. And she wouldn't have to suffer whatever the Irish bastard is plotting.

Dessa twists the cap off, using the hem of her skirt to protect her fingers. “Where's Nova?”

“Sleeping. Jericho had her up all night.”

Her lips thin, the narrow slant of her mouth disappearing entirely as she presses them together. It doesn't take much to realize what she thinks about _that._ “And how are you doing?”

“I'm...” he begins, and pauses. How is he supposed to answer that question, when it might not even matter? What does he say to someone who _cares,_ but not enough to reveal herself to Moriarty in a bid to end his suffering? If he tells her how hard it is to get up every morning, knowing that he has, potentially, years and years of abuse and put-downs ahead of him, each day unchanging in its misery? That the only truly-sympathetic person is the sweet-natured prostitute who gets beaten by every fifth john that climbs into her bed?

Would she really do anything? Would she change her mind? Would she stand up, knock on the door, and tell Moriarty what she's hiding an inch above her waistband on her lower back?

What should he say?

What _can_ he say?

“I'm doing alright,” he tells her. “Don't worry about me.”

“Okay,” Dessa says.

And that's it. A few minutes later, Joss emerges from the office with Moriarty, looking disgruntled, and the pair of them exit the saloon, leaving behind only an empty bottle of Nuka-Cola and a smirking Moriarty.

 

* * *

 

“So? How'd the trading go?”

Joss shrugs, glancing over at Dessa as they begin their walk down the precarious, rusted metal stairs and towards her bed and breakfast on the other side of the town. It's hotter now than when they went in, and Dessa finds that she's sweating immediately. Perspiration trickles down between her breasts and hangs there, uncomfortably; she doesn't dare look up higher than eye-level, knowing that the sun's brightness will momentarily blind her.

“Not much trading to be done as of yet. Not sure that there's any to be done at all,” he admits.

“What? Really? But... isn't that why you came here?”

“Moriarty raised his prices,” Joss explains. “Astromonically, I might say, and that's just a few caps shy of a hyperbole.”

A gust picks up, blowing dust into their eyes and mouths, settling into the crevices of their skin. Glancing sideways at Joss, she can see the specks of dirt sticking to the inner lining of his nose, tiny particles that look golden against the harsh, inflamed red of ghoulflesh.

“Moriarty isn't the nicest person,” she confesses.

“I know,” Joss says. “I've heard a lot about him, throughout our business dealings. But the one thing he's always been is consistent.”

He pauses, thinking, and their conversation goes on hold as they climb the steep hill to her house. The bed and breakfast sign looks charming and pleasant every time Dessa sees it, and her mood brightens somewhat.

“It's troubling that he's acting this way, so suddenly,” Joss continues. “Why raise his prices? Why now?”

Dessa flinches. It... couldn't be... because of her, could it? No, that didn't make any sense. Moriarty is incredibly wealthy. He couldn't be losing that much money because of a few travelers going to stay with her instead of him, could he?

“So they sent you to talk to him?” She doesn't mean to sound skeptical, but she does, a little bit.

“I know it's surprising,” he says with a dry chuckle, “but southern manners smooth the roughest roads. Most folks who don't care for ghouls one bit will at least hear me out.”

“I'm glad for that,” Dessa says, more sincerely this time. She likes Joss. A lot. She hasn't spoken much to him, but she's already warmed to the idea of him staying for nine days. She wonders if her assumptions are correct, if he _is_ pre-War, and if he'll talk about it at all. Maybe, after a few days, she'll ask him about it.

“I just wish that I'd been around more to work with the books,” Joss grouses, and sits down on the sofa inside as Dessa goes into the kitchen.

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, if you wouldn't mind, ma'am.”

A pause; Dessa puts the kettle on, then pokes her head back out into the living room. “What's wrong with the books?”

“It's... financial bullshit,” he says, waving a hand. “I have my systems, the other representatives have theirs. Unfortunately, no one else has education higher than a high school budgeting class. It's hard enough finding people who even know how to read. My books,” he says, emphasizing the difference, “are clear and laid-out and balance at the bottom of every page. Not so for all the yahoos who sent their books along with me. I'm supposed to have records to show Moriarty, explain to him why we can't deal with his price changes, and try to work out something different, if we can't go back to the old prices. But I need to know what I'm talking about first. I can argue my own case, for my own area, quite well. The others...”

He trails off.

“Why don't you do all the books, then, if no one else can do it properly?”

Joss looks pained. “The citizens are... young. Mostly smoothskins. They worry that I'm working too much, with my age. About a decade back, they insisted on dividing the workload. Told me to get a hobby. I took up guitar.”

“You can play guitar but didn't bring one?” Dessa exclaims.

He sends her a toothy grin. “Sorry, ma'am, I'd have obliged if I knew you wanted a song.”

“Everyone likes music,” she says.

“Maybe I can get my hands on one sometime,” he says. “I'm going to be here for long enough, anyway.”

Dessa brings him a cup of weak tea, and he makes an appreciative noise. He smiles into the steaming china, and then sighs heavily. “And maybe longer, if I can't get these damn books sorted.”

 


	11. The Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (* ^ ω ^)

Joss, Dessa realizes soon enough, has more problems than just worrying about his books. Not that the books aren't a mess in and of themselves; they are, incredibly so. She's had a look at them herself.

But... he's absent-minded.

He often forgets what he's thinking about or doing the instant he walks into a new room, which is normal in her opinion, but he does other things, too. Asks her to put the kettle on for tea, and then forgets that he asked for it. Sometimes, he'll explain something to her twice in one day, or recount the same story.

Dessa is beginning to rethink her position on the people of Ashland. While it seemed nice but a little demeaning to force him to step down on some of his duties, they probably had more reason than that. Joss claims that his accounting books are in order, but this is also coming from the same man who has reminded her fourteen times over the past five days that he likes his tea with milk and no sugar. Easy enough to procure, seeing as Jenny Stahl keeps bringing her breakfast for Joss, which includes fresh Brahmin milk, but still. It's a little annoying.

Worse yet are the tensions. With his forgetfulness combined with the stress of his job, of wanting to help his people back in Ashland and being under a bit of a rush to get Moriarty to change his mind over the prices, Joss tends towards irritability.

“Goddammit!” she hears him shout from downstairs, and winces. There's a dull thump, and she guesses that he must have tossed his book onto the table. Wadsworth, were he awake, would be exclaiming over it in distress, but she has him in sleep mode, locked away in the storage closet. She doesn't like to have him running all the time, especially not when she has guests. In her opinion, it makes the bed and breakfast more sincere if it's a living person tending the business.

In any case, it's probably better that he's turned off. She can't imagine that he would take to Joss's fits very well, and Joss himself probably would be crankier with another person literally hovering around him.

Dessa stays quiet for a moment, and when nothing else is forthcoming, she flips the page of the magazine she's reading.

Oh... well... _fuck._ Is that a nude fold-out of a raider? She's never seen a naked man before—unless she counted seeing Butch's ass when she accidentally walked in on him fucking Susie Mack in Vault 101's storage closet. This is full-frontal. Blushing, Dessa checks the picture more carefully. He's handsome, red-haired; probably around her age. _The Most Promising Raider of the Commonwealth!,_ the headline reads.

Dessa shakes her head. In any other magazine, she'd be appalled, but apparently from what Moira had said when she'd covertly slipped Dessa the issue, nude pictures and explicit stories are standard fare for _The Wasteland's Baddest (and Hottest)._ So far she hadn't seen anything else quite this mature, but still.

She glances at the author of the article. Jayce Carter. Dessa wonders how she got the raider to agree to a nude photo that he surely knew would be printed in a magazine shipped out to potentially thousands of women across the wasteland, and then decides that she doesn't really want to know after all.

But... it does make her think. She has yet to tell Moriarty about their connection, about their shared Mark. About how they belong together.

It makes her nervous. Not for just the obvious reasons of how two people with differing beliefs and opposing morals fit their lives together, but with physical... stuff... as well.

Dessa's a virgin, and had wanted to wait for her match. Now that she's found him... how fast will he want to go, once he finds out? Will he want to 'seal the deal' immediately? And why wouldn't he? He's fifty years old, for goodness sake, and if Gob was being honest, he's probably not gotten any for months, if not years, or ever. He could be a virgin too, which would make him clumsy and probably rough.

She wishes that she knew.

_Damn, if only I could read minds._

There's another string of curses from downstairs, and at this, Dessa stands. Smooths her skirt down, stretches her legs, and heads down reluctantly.

Joss is standing upright, glaring at the pile of pages and books he has in front of him. His ruddy skin and flesh is flushed red, and, for a brief moment, Dessa fears him. He's the very essence of rage and unpredictability, and at that moment she wishes she had not come downstairs at all.

He turns and sees her.

“Is everything alright?” she asks softly.

“It's... it's fine,” he says. “I'm sorry for yelling. It's just—I found another inconsistency. The people back home are counting on me, you know? And yet they couldn't be bothered to make sure everything was in order before they sent me out? I traveled over a week just to get here. I can't just go back home and double-check and then get right back.”

He pauses, and Dessa makes a quiet noise of noncommittal understanding. It seems to sooth him, and he runs a hand through his patchy black hair.

“In the old days—ugh, listen to me. Two hundred years ago, I never thought I'd hear myself say that phrase—but anyway, back then, I wouldn't have to deal with this issue. I could have just sent a comm up here, brought Moriarty up on video chat, and discussed it with him face-to-face without having to leave my home.” He stews for a moment. “Even without that, if we just had better communications—even goddamn dial-up Internet—literally anything other than shortwave radio—this would have made my job easier.”

He sighs, heavily.

Dessa ventures, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Joss waves a hand. “No. No, thanks for asking, but it's probably just better to stay out of my way.”

Well.

“I'll see you in a few hours then?” Dessa asks, a little stunned by his sudden rudeness, and walks out. She wonders why it feels as if she's been evicted from her own house.

 

* * *

 

It's noon, which means that most everyone is sleeping through the hottest part of the day, or at their jobs, or eating lunch. Not even Jericho is in the saloon, although that creepy asshole Burke is sitting in the corner with his fucking sunglasses on, staring into his glass of whiskey as if it's his own version of a goddamn crystal ball.

Gob doesn't like Burke.

However, he's a little nicer—nicer _acting,_ anyway—so he doesn't feel nervous about putting on the radio to Three Dog's station for a full hour, hoping that the signal will strengthen. Sometimes he catches a word or two, or the hint of a song, but the rest is just static. It's turned down low, fading into background noise, so although Burke jerked his head up at the sudden rush of static, he didn't voice any complaints.

The radio silences suddenly, and Gob glances over— _fuck._ Moriarty's downstairs. How'd he miss that? He must have not been paying attention, which isn't like him. Normally he can sense an incoming threat faster than Brahmin can sense an acid rainstorm.

“I thought I told you to stop tuning into that station, boyo,” he says pleasantly. His eyes are steel, the muscles in his neck shifting as his jaw twitches—but that shark's smile stays intact. “It's bothersome. Irritating.”

“Uh, I'm sorry, Mr. Moriarty,” he says meekly.

“Next time,” his boss says in that same sing-song voice, “I'll beat you so badly that you won't even _look_ at the radio for the next month.”

Gob flinches. “No, sir, I... I won't do it again.”

“Good! Static is bad for business, alright? Let's listen to something pleasant, or nothing at all.” Moriarty turns away, his slave forgotten, and muses, “Hm... some live entertainment wouldn't be out of place... how long has it been since we had that dark minx of a songbird here...? Over a decade? Wonder if she's still around...”

Gob's not sure what singer he's talking about, but, yes, it's true that they haven't had any performers in years. Nova and Silver had it covered for the past five years, delighting the bar's patrons with their bodies, and Moriarty never felt the need to hire a singer again. But with Silver gone, and Dessa trying to edge in on the business, he must be thinking about alternatives.

Burke leaves in the meantime, probably going back to his house; he spends a lot of time in the bar, but fortunately he takes breaks now and then. He's glad to see him leave, although the tension never really leaves him, since he knows that Burke is still in town.

The door opens, and Gob tenses in preparation for Jericho or one of their other repulsive regulars, but instead he sees a prim little black skirt and pale, slender legs. His eyes jerk up to the woman's face: Dessa. Of course. It's been a few days since she's seen Moriarty, and even if they aren't on good terms right now, she'll still want to talk to him, right?

She nods at Gob, first, and then her eyes turn to Moriarty. “Hey.”

Her voice is soft and husky. Gob wonders how the man can stand there in front of her and scowl like that, when she looks so gorgeous. Dessa cleans up well. Nearly a month of clean water and getting good food has restored her skin and body. She looks healthy, if not strong—she's too willowy to look powerful or fierce, but she's certainly beautiful. Her skin is just as pale as it was on the first day that Gob met her, the sunburns having faded away with her access to a house, and it's luminescent in the darkness of the saloon.

Moriarty looks irritated, even though he's smiling now. “Well, well. The little Vault flower. Here to do business?”

“No,” Dessa says, “I don't like to mix business with pleasure.”

Slowly, Gob's eyebrows go up. She's _flirting?_

Dessa sits down at the bar. “One Nuka-Cola, please, Gob?”

Wordlessly, he slides her a cold Nuka, exchanging a glance with Moriarty. It feels strange to look to him for direction, when he'd rather not look at the Irishman at all, but what else can he do? Dessa wants a drink, she's willing to pay for it, and Moriarty isn't kicking her out—surely he wouldn't expect Gob to flat-out refuse her?

But although he seems suspicious, he's relaxed a little now that Dessa's paid for something.

“And a cold beer,” she adds.

“A gift for your boarder?” Moriarty guesses.

Dessa shakes her head and holds out the bottle. “For you.”

His eyes narrow, even as he pops the cap and takes a swig. Lets out a breath and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Alright, lass, I'll bite. What's this about?”

“Nothing,” she says. A small smile plays on her lips. “I'm not allowed to visit you?”

Over their heads, Gob can see Nova coming downstairs, quietly—she pauses when she sees Dessa, and he gives her a wide-eyed look as he tilts his head towards the couple drinking together. Because, however reluctantly he's doing it, Moriarty _is_ talking and drinking with his Match.

Grasping the situation, Nova grins, and settles in against the wall behind them.

“I never said that, did I, lass?” Moriarty asks. “And as charming as my company is, I highly doubt that you made that trek across town in the midday heat just to share a drink with an old man twice your age.”

“Reason enough for me.”

“If that's the way you want to play it. I can wait. I'm a patient man, Dessa dear.”

Dessa blushes at him calling her _dear,_ and Gob shakes his head and holds back a scoff. _Really? He calls every woman 'dear' or 'dearie' or 'lass', and that's what you're getting worked up about?_

“If it's so hard to believe, then I'll just have to visit you more. Do you really think that your company is so unbearable?”

“Nothing wrong with my company,” Moriarty says, “but your... interest... is surprising. Which makes me think that you're not here to make friends.”

Dessa grins. “You're right. I'm not.”

“Aha! Then—”

“I'd rather be more.”

At that, Moriarty flinches, and out of the corner of his eye, Gob sees Nova bite back a laugh. One hand covers her mouth, then the other, and she doubles over silently, tears streaming down her face.

Panicked, Gob shakes his head at her. _What the hell is she thinking? If Moriarty turns around and sees her_ laughing _at him, of all people—_ but when he gives her an exaggerated expression of censure and horror, she only cries harder. Her shoulders are trembling, and she makes a small noise. Fortunately, Moriarty is still stunned by Dessa's words, and doesn't notice. Thank God for small mercies.

Moriarty says, cautiously, and with more than a little bit of anger, “If this is about that other time-”

“It's not. It's not about anything. I like you. Isn't that enough?”

“Handsome as I am, can you believe I don't think you're being honest with me?” His words are heavy with sarcasm. "I did threaten you. Don't think that I've forgotten about that. I won't be distracted. If that's what you're trying to do."

“Fishing for compliments, Moriarty?” Her voice is sly and seductive, and Gob sees him lean forward unconsciously, drawn in despite himself. Gob doesn't think he realizes what's going on, doesn't understand the magnetic pull that Dessa has on him, but he's reacting to her anyway.

“I could pay anyone to kiss my arse,” he growls. “I don't want false flattery.”

“It wouldn't be false if I were saying it.”

“Dessa—”

She laughs. “Fine, fine, don't believe me. Go... do whatever you do. Intimidate someone. Steal caps from some kids. I'll let you go this time.”

Moriarty lets out an indignant noise. “Let _me_ go?”

“I'll have you eventually.” Dessa pauses deliberately. “Colin.”

This time, it's Moriarty that's blushing, and Gob's face goes slack with amazement. He watches wordlessly as he storms away, muttering something under his breath in a thicker accent than usual. By the time the door is closed, Dessa's face is beet-red.

Nova lets loose a loud guffaw and pounds her fist on the floor; Dessa buries her face in her hands. “Oh my god, I can't believe I just said that!”

“I can't believe it either!” Gob exclaims. “Him? You can't honestly be serious about finding him attractive.”

“But he is!” Dessa groans. “And he probably thinks I'm a creep now.”

Gob sighs, both amazed and horrified. As Moriarty had said, he's over twice Dessa's age, and that's not even taking into account his disgusting personality. How can a pretty young girl like her find him attractive?

Nova finds it within herself to crawl off of the floor, but she's still wiping tears off of her face. “God, I've never seen Colin so flustered. Sweetie, he can't think you're a creep when he's so attracted to you.”

Dessa rolls her eyes. “No, he isn't. All he ever wants to do is push me away. I... I know, really. I tried to kiss him. Before.”

Gob chokes. Now, _that_ he hadn't known.

“And how did that go?” Nova purrs.

“He, uh, he slapped me.”

Two steps forward, and Nova's hugging her.

Gob blinks, surprised. He... feels bad for Dessa, of course he does. But, he's really no good at making people feel any better. He wouldn't have even thought that Dessa would want a hug or any kind of gesture that could be taken as pity; she seems like such a strong woman. He'd never risk it.

But Nova? Nova's without fear, and that's one thing that Gob admires most about her, second to her kindness. He doesn't understand how she can banter with Moriarty or flirt with customers who have beaten her before. How she can willingly go to bed with men three times her size, come out with bruises and limping—and then do it all over again the next day, without a single complaint.

And then, she finds it within herself to comfort a girl who hasn't seen a hundredth of the abuse that Nova has.

“Does he know yet?” Nova asks quietly.

“No,” Dessa whispers.

“He shouldn't have done that, sweetie, I hope you know that. But don't be too hard on him, either. He's... very strict, about that sort of thing. He never shows any interest, in anyone. He's waiting for his Match. For you.”

Dessa nods, gulps. “I know.”

“At least he likes you,” Nova says, shrugging. “That's half the battle.”

She laughs, the sound choked and sad. “He doesn't! Nova, he hates me!”

“Well, even if he hates you, he _wants_ you.” Nova wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, making Dessa laugh, more sincerely this time.

“No, come on!”

“I'm serious! Baby, I make my living off of men's lust. Don't you think I recognize it when I see it?”

Gob covers his eyes. “Ugh. Please, don't ever talk about Moriarty's _lust_ ever again. I would rather shoot myself in the head. Please.”

Both women laugh again.

 

* * *

 

Dessa's mood is brighter for the whole rest of the day; partly from seeing Moriarty, and mostly from talking with Gob and Nova. It's barely even dampered when she comes home to find Joss sitting in the middle of the living room floor, papers spread out around him. They're covering the entire floor, surrounding him in an ocean of pages and ink.

Joss glances up when she comes in. “Oh. You're back.”

“Joss, what—what on earth? What is all this?”

He grimaces. “Thought it would help me organize everything. There's... there's something I'm trying to find. I swear I had it when I left. It's a single sheet, it's a missive from Richmond. We trade with them, too, and... dammit!”

“How long have you been looking?” Dessa ventures.

“God, I don't even fucking know,” he snaps. “Just... don't move anything. I need this to stay exactly where it is, alright?”

“Fine,” Dessa says, holding up her hands. “I'm, uhm... going to be in my room?”

He doesn't answer, and soon enough, Dessa is back to leisurely reading her magazine. _The Wasteland's Baddest (and Hottest)_ is usually around one hundred glossy pages of articles and stories and pictures, and it's fascinating to read about what's going on in other parts of the old United States. She finishes the article on the nude raider, who apparently is some psychopath named Mason, and then continues on to read about a cult leader in Maine who happens to be a Glowing One who keeps human women as pets. Of course, the article tries to put a sexy spin on what sounds suspiciously like nonconsentual BDSM, but she has to admit that for a ghoul, the Glowing One is pretty good-looking.

About an hour later, Dessa yawns and puts down the magazine; checking her Pip-Boy, she realizes that it's already after nine, later than she prefers to be awake. After all, she has to get up early in the morning to wake up properly, dress and do her hair, clean downstairs, start some tea for Joss, and then wait for Jenny to deliver breakfast for them. It takes a long time if she wants to do everything properly, without rushing herself, and it's calming to go through a routine.

The lights are out in the house, so Dessa assumes Joss has already gone to bed, and turns out her light. Yawning again, she drops her clothes on the floor and slips into bed. The sheets are cool against her bare skin; the sensation is soothing and lovely, and she already finds herself slipping away.

_It was so nice getting to see Moriarty again... I hope he isn't too mad at me. I hope he won't get upset when he finds out who I really am. If Nova is right, then... maybe he'll be happy? I still don't know if he actually likes me. I like him. I like him a lot..._

There's a faint sound at the edge of her periphery, and with her back to the door, cuddling with one of her pillows pressed to her chest, she doesn't notice it at first, although her subconscious pulls her further out of sleep: Pay attention. Listen to this.

Her door is opening.

Still in the darkness, Dessa's eyes snap open, and her skin goes cold. _Did... did I forget to lock my door?_

She can hear the hinges moving, even though they'd been oiled a few weeks ago, the barest whisper of sound as the door cuts through the air and falls wide open.

She's imagining it. Surely she's imagining it.

She hears a breath, a small inhale, and then a sigh.

_She isn't imagining it._

Dessa tries not to flinch—Codsworth is still in sleep mode. It would be easy for someone to break in. If she screams, will Joss wake up and come help her? How heavy of a sleeper is he? Should she take that chance? Will it be better for her to just pretend to be asleep?

_Oh god, I'm going to die, aren't I?_

There's still nothing happening though. No knife across her throat, no sounds of a person rummaging through her belongings—nothing at all.

Maybe she _was_ imagining it?

It seems to take all of the courage she's ever had and ever _will_ have, to turn over and look.

There's a man's silhouette in her doorway.

She screams, but it's a strangled sound that's cut off as soon as it starts, more of a startled squawk than anything else; a pathetic noise, and probably the last one she'll ever make, because she took a gamble in turning around, quite honestly not expecting anyone to really be there, and—

She squints at the shape in the darkness.

_“Joss?”_

There's a small noise as the silhouette's head jerks up, and a short silence that has her gasping in terror, but eventually he says, “Dessa? Isn't this—”

Then he pauses. “I'm sorry, I guess this isn't my room.”

She blinks, still half-out of her mind in fear. “Uhm. No, Joss, you're in the one right beside me. To your right?”

_Where you've always been?_

“Oh! Yes. Thank you. I'm sorry.”

“Could you... you know... shut the door please?”

“Yes, of course. Sorry.”

She hears his footsteps move across the hall, and then he steps into his own bedroom.

Dessa breathes a long sigh of relief, then stands on shaky legs and locks her door.

Even with the knowledge that she's safe in her room, it takes her a long time to fall asleep.

 


	12. The Musician

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, churning out all these chapters at once!
> 
> (don't expect it to last)

After the incident where Joss forgot which bedroom was his, Dessa watches him carefully, and with mounting concern. She's not sure what could be so terrible about absent-mindedness, but the terror from having him walk in on her has made a lasting impression. Otherwise, why else would she be so edgy around him? He doesn't have any more issues quite as bad as that one, but his temper is just the same, and he swears more and more frequently, even though he'd originally not sworn at all in her presence. She thinks that maybe it's just because he's gotten more comfortable around her, but... she isn't really sure.

It could just be that the stress is getting to him. That's incredibly likely, especially because on Day Eight of his stay, he receives a letter from Ashland that contains one of the things that he was missing. The courier charges him a large amount of money for a “rush delivery” and leaves without even waiting for a letter back. It leaves Joss fuming mad for the rest of the day, and he is forced to pay Dessa for more days in advance.

“At least three more,” he grouches, over a cup of tea. The letter from Ashland is laying on the coffee table, a reminder of the immense amount of work and recalculations he'll  be facing. “God knows how many it'll end up being.”

“Have you and Moriarty come to any understanding yet?”

“No,” Joss says, “we haven't.”

“Right,” Dessa says, noting his glare, and backs off.

 

* * *

 

That was a few days ago. Today is Day Eleven, and she wakes up slowly, before the alarm on her Pip-Boy goes off.

At first, she isn't sure what's woken her. Dessa lays in silence for a few minutes, watching the light filter in through the window, wondering why she's awake—and then she hears the sound again.

 _Thump._ It's from downstairs, and a few seconds later there's a faint shuffling noise, like fabric rustling, a quiet mutter. _Thump._ Repeat. _Thump._ Repeat.

Rising slowly, Dessa switches off the upcoming alarm on her Pip-Boy, and slides out of bed. Below her, the noises continue, heedless of her approach. When she places her hand on the doorknob and turns, she quietly notes that the handle is just as cold as her skin.

Her footsteps creak on the rusted sheet metal beneath the warm rugs, but there's still no sign of the noises stopping, and the rhythmic continuation is somehow... off. Sounding more like an odd mechanical failure rather than the movements of another living person, merely because the sounds are so steady.

This last thought is what creeps Dessa out the most, to be honest. She can't imagine what might be making those sounds, but in her mind's eye she has the horrifying image of Codsworth twitching and malfunctioning on the kitchen floor; some kind of inner processing gone horribly wrong while he was in sleep mode. It makes her imagine that maybe—

Silence.

Stomach in her throat, blood draining from her face, Dessa realizes that the sounds have stopped upon her closing the door.

Her pounding heartbeat is the only thing she can hear right now. Her bare feet freeze on the stairs as she descends, and that innate sense of screaming _wrongness_ hits her even more strongly as soon as she's three steps down.

The living room has been ransacked. The cast-iron rack where she keeps all of her decorations and dishes and tableclothes—basically, everything that she uses downstairs, because Codsworth takes up the entire storage closet—has been tossed aside and is laying up against the doorway, blocking it completely. Pottery is smashed at the base of the stairs, as if someone had thrown a vase there. Ceramic shards litter the floor.

The noises have continued, and Dessa takes another two steps downwards, ducking her head a little so that she can see the entire downstairs.

It's just as bad as the first glance. Everything is smashed and dismantled. The refrigerator is laying on its side, leftover food and Nuka-Colas spilling out, and there's gunmetal gray pieces of _something_ laying everywhere— _oh god._

The storage closet is open. The storage closet is open, and Codsworth isn't inside.

There's a shuffling movement, and that soft sound of sliding fabric. A mutter: “Not here...”

Dessa directs her eyes to the center of the room. The sofa has been flipped and is currently upside-down. A ragged figure is crouched in front of it, digging into the innards of the furniture and tearing out stuffing with bleeding hands. Then he grabs a spring, pulls it out, inspects it. Tosses it aside. _Thump._

He pauses, cracks his neck, and shuffles sideways to reach more stuffing. “Not here...”

“Joss?” Dessa whimpers.

In an instant, the ghoul's head whips around and he stares at her with a frightening intensity. His normally-milky eyes are bloodshot, and he's bleeding from a cut on his face. “Hello?”

“Joss... uhm... what are you doing?”

Joss's clothes are torn, as if he's been savaged by a yao guai. Both of his shoes are off, but he's only wearing one sock. His hand scrapes across his head, leaving bloody furrows in his scalp. His hand comes away with a fistful of black hair and scalp that he drops without notice. Dessa shudders at the wet noise of it as it hits the floor; his skull is visible, but the wound is only bleeding sluggishly, despite its horrifying appearance.

“I lost something,” he says simply. “I can't find it.”

Dessa backs up, shaking her head, pressing a hand to her mouth. _Oh god. I'm going to throw up, I'm going to throw up—_

“Will you help me look?”

Her hand slaps down onto the banister, anchoring her in place even though she just wants to run.

“What are you looking for, sweetie?” she rasps, her eyes huge and watering. Her back is pressed up against the wall, trembling from the intensity of her fear.

But Joss—or what's left of him, anyway—isn't listening anymore. He's turned back around, staring down at the sofa, and then growls. Downright _growls._

Dessa flinches. “J-Joss?”

“It's around here somewhere,” he says insistently. “Help me look.”

“Okay...” _So... he still has enough reasoning to be able to speak... that's a good thing, right? Can it be reversed? If he can reason, at least a little, there has to be something I can do..._

There _has_ to be something.

Besides... as terrifying as Joss is right now, he's never thrown a fit _at_ her, even though he's thrown stuff around and put up a huge fuss about things that Dessa doesn't understand. He's never hurt her, and when they first met, he was so _nice._ Surely, if he isn't completely gone, he won't do anything. It's just not in his nature.

“Where do you want me to start?” Dessa ventures. _Maybe, if I help him, he'll be persuaded to move that rack out of the way..._ she bites her lip. _If I could just get that door open, I could run to get help. Even if I scream, no one will be able to get in because of that thing—it's too heavy. And it would probably just startle Joss. He might be frightened enough to attack me._

“Look in there,” Joss orders, and points to the sofa. “There's a lot of hiding places.”

“Right!” Dessa says, briskly, and wipes down her hands. _You can do this. It's not like he's completely gone, right? It's still Joss. You can do this._

And she goes down the rest of the stairs.

 

* * *

 

In Moriarty's Saloon, Gob pauses in the middle of polishing tables, tilts his head, and pauses. “Nova?”

“Yes?” she sings, walking downstairs. She's still in the midst of zipping up her corset, her low-cut shirt unbuttoned and hanging off of her shoulders. Gob doesn't blink at the sight of so much cleavage, having seen it every day for the last five years; instead, he frowns, because her attention is focused on her clothes and not on his words.

“You think maybe there's a storm coming in?” he asks.

“Dunno, why?”

“I have... an odd feeling,” he says. “Like something bad is going to happen. Like the air tastes strange. I... don't really know how to describe it.”

Nova scoffs. “Weirdo.”

“I'm serious.” He frowns.

“I'm serious too! You're a weirdo. Fine, what do _you_ think is going on? Acid rainstorm?” Nova pauses, and then her eyes widen. “Hey, maybe it's a tornado! You know how dogs and cats and Brahmin can tell when bad weather's rolling in? Do you think that ghouls—”

Gob rolls his eyes and tosses his rag at her. Nova squawks and dodges, giggling. “Don't be a meanie! I was kidding, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, giving her a sideways smile. But it falls away quickly, and his mood darkens. Something _is_ wrong. He knows something bad is going on, or about to happen. Gob has good instincts, trusts them. He feels terrible, like there's a dark shadow resting inside of his chest, surrounding his heart, making him choke on sticky blackness.

He bites his lip, thinking. “Uhh... you know what Moriarty's doing? Is he awake yet?”

“Think so,” Nova says with a shrug. “Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Once he's finished, and Nova's in the bathroom putting on her make-up and humming to herself, he ventures upstairs. Takes one deep breath, and knocks on his boss's door for the first time in years.

He's almost never bothered Moriarty when he was in his private rooms. When he's up there, he's not paying attention to Gob, and he'd rather keep it that way. The less he sees of Moriarty, the better. But... the feeling in his chest won't go away.

“Mr. Moriarty, sir,” he growls.

Silence. He waits, grimacing, and then knocks a second time. “Sir?”

The door flies open. “What the fuck is yer problem, boy? It's not even seven in the morning yet. Are ye mad?”

His accent is thick, his hair unbrushed. Distractedly, Gob wonders if Dessa would find him cute like this, wearing his stained white undershirt, eyes bleary. He thinks he looks rather appalling, but his Match would probably think differently.

“Something's wrong,” he says shortly.

Moriarty perks up at this, his face sobering and becoming less sleepy, less irritated. “What is it?”

“I don't know.”

Moriarty glares, and shoves Gob hard. He lets himself fall backwards, and lands his ass on the ground. He's not going to try to keep what's left of his pride today; Moriarty can slap him around if that means he'll listen. Something important is going on.

“Fucking idiot zombie,” Moriarty snarls. “The hell is wrong with you? Did you shit out yer brains this morn and flush them down the toilet? My sleep is important.”

“I wouldn't have bothered you otherwise, sir,” he says, standing back up. “Did anything happen, that you know of, that might... be... uh, bad?”

Moriarty tilts his head, his expression becoming shrewd. “Hm. Did you hear anything this morning? Or last night? Screams, perhaps?”

The blood drains from Gob's face.

_No._

“What did you do?”

 

* * *

 

“Did you find it yet?”

Dessa brushes off her hands, having finished pulling all the stuffing out of the sofa. Her fingers are itchy from the threads of polyester fiber, but at least her fingers aren't bleeding. Joss had insisted upon her tearing out all the springs, and when she told him she couldn't do that, he let out a put-upon sigh and tore them out himself. She had to keep herself from flinching at the display of strength; he plucked out the curls of metal as easily as she could pick socks up off the floor.

“No,” she tells him. “It's not in there. Did you remember what you're looking for yet?”

“No...” he grumbles. He sits back and sighs.

“Did you want to try looking outside?” she ventures. “Could it be out there?”

He shoots her an irritated glance. “No,” he says slowly, as if she's dense. “It's in here.”

“I could look outside, and you could keep looking in here?”

She's hopeful that if she presses the issue, he'll decide that it's better for them to split up. _As long as I can get him to move the rack out of the way, I have a chance,_ she thinks. _Even if he attacks me when I'm leaving, at least other people will hear me and be able to get to me._

Joss's face tightens. “Are you trying to get out of helping me?”

“What? No, no, of course not!”

“Good. I _need_ to find it.”

“Did you remember what it is yet?”

“Well...” Joss hems and haws, casting his gaze around, and then swallows. “...no. Normally I have a very good memory. It's because I drink a lot of tea.”

Bloodshot, glazed eyes fix on her face intently. “With cream. No sugar! It's very bad for you. You should drink tea twice a day, but no more than that. It has a lot of benefits. That's why I have such a good memory.”

Dessa can't help it; she giggles, unbearably relieved to hear him say something familiar. And his voice became stronger and clearer when he said this, so, maybe if she keeps him on track, he'll start to remember more? Pull him back from the edge just a little bit farther?

“What's your favorite kind of tea, Joss?”

“Earl Gray,” he says immediately, “but there used to be a plantation in Charleston. Charleston Breakfast Tea. There was a jingle—” and he hums it, quickly— “and they aired these ads for it with the little Charleston Tea Boy. They still grow the tea there, did you know that?”

“No, I didn't!”

He nods. “All the tea in the United States comes from Charleston. That's all they grow.”

“That's amazing!”

“It's expensive, but worth it.” He pauses. “Especially if you remember those days. Tea leaves brewed in clean water, without the radiation... better than that tinned coffee shit. Bunch'a baloney. Pre-War beans taken from third-world countries. Slave labor. You think I want to spend my hard-earned money on that? That's why I buy Charleston Tea. At least it's grown here. No one's dying or starving at that plantation.”

Dessa thinks that he's probably wrong, seeing as it's the apocalypse, but she doesn't feel brave enough to correct him.

“Oh!” he exclaims, standing upright. He snaps his fingers. “That's what I'm trying to find! My guitar!”

“Didn't you leave it behind in Ashland?”

“No, I brought it with me. I love playing guitar. I know over two hundred songs.” Joss blinks, and his entire body freezes. His eyes refocus on her. “Wait. Who did you say you were?”

“My name's Dessa,” she says patiently, still sitting on the floor.

“What are you doing in my house?”

She takes in a deep breath, and stands, trying not to make any sudden movements. Joss isn't growling or snarling or screaming or anything, but she senses that this, right now? This is the most dangerous he has been yet.

“I was helping you look for your guitar.”

“Why would I lose my guitar?” He sounds baffled.

“I'm... not sure. You told me you needed help finding it.”

“I don't need any help!”

_Okay, time to leave._

“Well, if you move the rack out of the way for me, I'll be out of your way. It's obvious you've got this handled...”

“Did you steal it?” Joss demands.

“What?” Dessa turns to face him, amazed by the jump in logic. “Of course not! Why would I steal from you?”

“Why would you?” he muses, drawing closer—his eyes are shining and crazed. “Why would you? _Why would you?”_

As Joss steps forward, whether to threaten or intimidate, Dessa isn't sure, there's a hideous cracking noise.

At first she thinks it's something that he stepped on—but even as she watches, something inside of him gives way, expanding outwards—the left side of his face swells alarmingly, squeezing one eye shut. Seams of flesh tear as his innards become too large for his skin to contain. A sickly green light glows from the ruptures in his flesh, an unnatural incandescence. Gobbets of pus trapped inside his skin slop out onto the floor and drip down his clothing.

He screams, directly into her face: Dessa can look directly into his mouth, opened too wide, and count every rotting tooth. Fetid air blasts over her skin, and in the base of his throat, an unholy light begins to shine. The swollen eye twitches; the other bulges alarmingly. Midway through his shriek, the left eye begins to bleed from the immense pressure, and with another cracking sound, the gelatinous orb splits down the middle, spraying her face with blood and fluid.

Dessa screams.

 

 

 

 


	13. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along."  
> -Rumi

“What did you do?” Gob is unsteady, blood pounding. _Then something did happen. He did do something._ But, oh god, what on earth could it be, to make him feel this bad? His chest is tight, his skin prickling.

“Nothing!” Moriarty says, raising his hands. His voice is all innocence, but he's holding back a smirk. Turning away and pulling on his t-shirt, he adds, “Nothing you need to worry yourself with, anyway.”

Gob clenches his fists. “Mr. Moriarty, sir...”

Moriarty reaches for his leather vest. “Well, I'm hardly going to tell you. Not with _your_ loyalties.”

“It's Dessa, isn't it,” he says flatly.

“Ah, and what did I just say about your loyalties?”

Very, very faintly, there's a scream that pierces the early morning air, through the open window in the lower level of the saloon.

“Well,” Moriarty says with a vile grin, “looks like it's begun.”

“You—” Gob gasps, his mind racing— _what the hell am I supposed to do? What's going on? Oh god, is it too late for her already?_ “Dessa!”

He lunges for the banister, ready to fly out the door, but Moriarty catches his arm with a cold, “Ah, ah. I don't think so.”

Gob turns, livid; he doesn't give a second thought to the words spilling out of his mouth: “She—is—your—MATCH!”

Moriarty's grip on his arm loosens, and he doesn't see his reaction, because he's already running down the stairs—looking at the door, wondering how quickly he can reach the other side of town—thinking about the walkways— _can I jump off of something to get there faster—_ but he can hear Moriarty's swearing, and finally, as he rushes out the door, the sounds of the old man following him.

 

* * *

 

Joss is gone.

Dess knows this, staring up into the face of the Glowing One whose light is searing her skin, punctured eye drooling luminescent slurry, hands clawed towards her. Still hearing her own scream reverberating around her ears, the sound mixing into the roar of the feral ghoul, merging into a hellish cacophony. Everything spins together, the sound of her heartbeat and the Glowing One's harsh pants, the dripping of blood and pus and saliva.

Dess knows that it isn't Joss anymore, because Joss would never take a bite out of her shoulder.

She pushes him away, reeling from the sudden burst of agony and blood loss; she's never felt pain like this before in her life. Crying out, she half-falls onto the floor and immediately scrambles to her feet, narrowly dodging the ghoul's claws, chipped and bloodied and crusted over.

 _Make it to the stairs. If I can get into my room, my room has a lock, I can—oh god..._ The thought of survival, of even making it into her bedroom, is too much at once. It seems insurmountable, a herculean effort, too much to hope for. She doesn't have a chance. But even as the dread drags her down, the will to live burns brightly—adrenaline flooding her veins, heartbeat racing, the world slowing around her as her brain overclocks visual input.

Even though her mind tells her she won't make it, her body forces her to try.

She can already feel her flesh burning from the immense amount of radiation the Glowing One is putting out. _Have to get away._ Gasping, she pulls herself onto her feet with her right arm—her left is completely useless, still spurting blood and twitching. She doesn't know how bad the injury is, just that she can feel the blood pouring down her arm and dripping off of her fingers.

_Come on, Dessa. Come on!_

She's halfway up the stairs when the Glowing One snags her ankle.

 

* * *

 

The screams haven't stopped.

By the time Gob's reached Dessa's front door, gasping for breath (he doesn't run, much—no need, when he spends all of his time as a slave in the saloon), Moriarty and Nova have caught up to him. Gob shoves at the door, then shakes his head: “Locked.”

Without missing a beat, Moriarty draws his pistol and fires at the door, sending a bullet directly through the keyhole. “Get it open.”

Gob shoves at the door again, but it's not giving—there must be something blocking it on the other side. But in his panicked state, it feels more like a universal conspiracy against him—no matter what he does, he's doomed to failure. From his ghoulification, to his father chasing him off the family farm with a rifle, to his capture and slavery, and now, losing one of the only two friends that he has?

_No! I won't do it! I won't let this happen!_

Nova is sobbing. “Oh god, oh god...”

_Dessa's her friend, too._

So, instead of pushing the door, Gob pulls backwards on the handle.

The door opens to the inside, but if he exerts enough strength, that'll break or bend the hinges, right? It's an idiotic decision, but in his panicked rush, it makes sense. Never mind the fact that doors aren't meant to be pulled both ways, that they're specifically _made_ to not break so easily under pressure... Gob grits his teeth and strains his muscles, feeling the tendons in his neck stand out. He lets out a low, furious growl, rallying his strength—he can feel the capillaries in his face bursting, white spots dancing in front of his eyes, but he doesn't quit.

The doorknob comes off in his hand.

He screams in frustration.

“Nova!” Moriarty snaps. “Get a fucking crowbar!”

“Y-yes!”

Gob doesn't spare a glance back. Hooks his fingers into the doorknob hole, ignoring the rusty screws poking into his skin from the other side. He braces one foot against the house and pulls again; he senses the slightest give, but not enough that it makes any kind of difference. Furious— _Dessa is still screaming—_ he shifts his footing, shoves his fingers in deeper, and tries again.

 _Fucking fuck fuck fuck!_ He can't feel his fingers anymore. As he pulls, tears from exertion filling his eyes, his throat hoarse, he feels both fingernails on his right hand snap away at the root.

He doesn't stop.

And then, just when he thinks he's going to pass out, he remembers to take in another breath of air and somewhere, _somewhere,_ finds one tiny extra burst of strength before he collapses.

There's a screech of metal. Nova, who's just returned (whether or not she has a crowbar, Gob doesn't know), stops dead behind Moriarty.

The door flexes, and slowly— _fucking hurry, goddammit!—_ the door peels back, inch by painful inch. Gob strips it right from the hinges, tosses it aside, and charges into the room, barely avoiding tripping on a huge cast iron rack that's sitting right in front of the goddamn doorway.

Dessa is still alive and he doesn't know how. There's so much blood. All down the staircase, like a fucking red carpet. Her face is covered in it, her hair is wet with it. He can see her shoulder, savaged and laid down to the bone, dangerously close to her neck.

And there's a Glowing One eating her alive.

Gob screams in rage. He doesn't know _what_ he's saying, just that it's a jumble of fury and insults and _hate._ For one goddamn moment, he's thankful that he's a ghoul, because the immense output of radiation strengthens him within an instant. He feels downright _powerful,_ and he plows into the ghoul with the force of a battering ram.

It's like hitting a brick wall. Amongst ghouls, Glowing Ones are like kings. With those that are still sane, they have incomparable charisma, the aura of radiation drawing in other ghouls like addicts to a drugstore. Radiation feels _good,_ and it keeps ghouls healthy and happy.

But with ferals? Glowing Ones still have the same draw, but they're just that much goddamn harder to kill.

The ghoul snarls and turns, knocking Gob down the rest of the stairs— _is that_ Joss? he wonders, horrified—and then jerks upright and attacks again. This time, knowing that he won't be able to overpower it, he ducks beneath its outstretched arm, loops a limb around its torso, and locks it into place.

“Shoot it!” he screams, ducking his head. “Fucking shoot it!”

There's a brief pause, no more than a second, and a gunshot rings out. Gob hears Nova's scream, and then the sensation of the Glowing One slackening in his arms, before struggling again—two more gunshots ring out and then the corpse of the feral slumps, and slides down the stairs with a sickening _thump_ before coming to rest.

“Get out!” Gob snarls, and without waiting to see if Moriarty and Nova obey him, he turns around and throws himself onto Dessa, who's still laying prone on the stairs.

Less than three seconds later, there's an earsplitting _boom_ behind him, a rush of light and heat. Glowing Ones are volatile, enough that they tend to explode upon death. Even if the blast doesn't kill those in the vicinity, the radiation usually does. But for Gob? He feels it rush into his pores, soaking into his skin—he lets out a small moan of indescribable pleasure at the sensation. Shakes himself afterwards. Stupid. Wrong place, wrong time. Even if he feels better than he has in years.

He pulls himself off Dessa, and sighs.

Her eyes are open. Not focused, but she's breathing.

_There's still time._

 

* * *

 

The world's faded into darkness. Not so deep and consuming that she sees nothing at all, but just enough to spread a fog over her eyes, enough to cloud her mind and dull her senses. She's aware of Gob talking to her, his eyes fixed on her own, hands on either side of her face. He's shaking her, telling her something, but she doesn't know what it is.

And then she sees him.

Long gray hair, blue eyes that cut right to her soul. His boots are covered in radioactive sludge from Joss's body, glowing, burning the leather. Smoke rises around his legs, but he doesn't break eye contact.

She tries to lift her head, to get up, but in the next moment he's kneeling, pushing a syringe into her arm. Her senses are so dulled that she doesn't even flinch when the needle pricks her skin. Dessa feels the fog start to clear away, the wound on her shoulder burn and ache as it begins to close over. The world comes back in waves. First the rest of her sight, then sound: she can hear Gob and Nova murmuring quietly outside. And at last, the pain.

Moriarty watches for a moment, and then she feels his big hands go around her waist. Turning her over, until she's on her knees with her back towards him, his right arm looped around her chest, holding her up—Dessa doesn't have the strength to support herself. The warm callouses on his left hand catch on her shirt as he lifts the back of it.

 _My Mark._ Our _Mark._

Dessa trembles. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears filling her vision. He knows. _He knows._ She can't explain the emotions roiling within her: overwhelming joy, exquisite sorrow, all-consuming anxiety and fear. She's bared before him, all that she is revealed to him.

There's a long, shuddering exhale against her neck, and Moriarty presses his thumb against her Mark, rubbing over it—one, two, three swipes, before his hand twitches and he pulls her shirt back down to cover her skin.

_He's not saying anything._

Dessa can't look him in the eye; she lets herself slump forward when he lets her go, her forehead touching her thighs; only to hear his soft grunt and those warm, muscular arms wrap around her and pick her up bridal-style. _Whatever he thinks, at least he's accepting me..._ oh god, how did she ever live without this? How did she go on each day without his strength surrounding her?

And then she thinks about his cruelty, his viciousness, and his selfish nature, and she remembers.

But for now, as he walks in silence, all the way down through the center of town, her eyes closed and head lolling against his chest, with her injured shoulder sheltered against his torso, it's okay. He's there, and he knows who she is.

For now, it's okay.

 

 

 


	14. The Meantime

Dessa doesn't realize that she's fallen asleep until she wakes up in bed.

And not her own. There's a lot more natural light, and the room is bigger; the bed is queen-sized rather than her own cramped single. And... it smells like beer, cheap cologne, and cigarettes, so, in essence, Moriarty.

He must have brought her here.

Laying in Moriarty's bed is a lot less stressful than she'd imagined it to be, especially since the man himself doesn't appear to be in the room. All of her other imaginings had involved rushed intimacies and fear and discomfort. She hadn't ever really thought about seeing it in the light of day, relaxing with the scent of her Match surrounding her. It's nice to be able to stretch out her limbs, to look at the sunlight filtering through the dirt-flecked windows, and let the day's events roll through her mind like an incoming tide.

 _I'm alive._ Dessa absorbs this fact quietly. She's a little startled by the realization that no matter how much she fought to live, she didn't expect to make it. She wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for Gob and Moriarty.

_Although..._

Dessa takes in a deep breath, preparing herself, and then pushes down the sheets, revealing her bandaged shoulder. Blinks, and grits her teeth. It still hurts. That's after one stimpack and however many others she's been injected with after passing out, and Dessa would bet all her caps on the fact that Moriarty would have put at least another into her. She's stiff and sore, and to see that it's still bandaged, even after getting medical care...

Hesitant, she pushes the gauze over her shoulder, and flinches.

She knew that the Glowing One had savaged her, but she doesn't expect it to look this bad. Her entire left shoulder is a hideous patchwork of red dips and welts, crisscrossed with thick silver scars. It extends from her neck all the way to the top of her arm, a little ways down her back. But it's not bleeding, and she flexes her arm, experimentally. _Everything still works, so... it can't be that bad, right?_ Dessa will worry about vanity later. Right now, she's just glad to be alive.

“It's my fault.”

Dessa jerks back at the words, nearly falling off the bed in surprise. _Shit!_ She blinks. “...Moriarty?”

She hadn't seen him when she first woke up. He's sitting on the floor to her right, his head resting against the side of the bed. _Has he been here the whole time?_ But he doesn't turn around, or even move at all, really, just sort of shakes his head.

“This never should have happened,” he says.

“Moriarty,” she tries again.

“Colin,” he corrects, quietly.

Her face softens.

“Colin,” she repeats. The name feels as strange on her tongue as it did the first time she'd addressed him by his given name. She's not sure that she likes it; she's gotten used to calling him by his last name, even in her thoughts, over the month or so that she's known him. And, Match or not, he's still over thirty years her elder. It's... strange, like as if she'll be reprimanded for not showing her manners.

“It's not your fault,” she says, edging closer. From this angle, she can see the top of his head, his arms crossed in front of his chest, the spread of his thighs as he sits tailor-fashion on the floor. His head is bowed, but as she crawls towards him, she sees his head lift, the muscles in his neck tensing. “You can't control something like that! He was going feral...”

“I brought him here,” Moriarty grits out.

Dessa blinks. “Because you changed your prices?”

Her Match lets out a low laugh and shakes his head. “You're underestimating me, lass. Whether or not I needed more caps—which I quite honestly don't, by the way—do you really think I would raise my prices so high as to drive off business with the largest and closest trading hub to Megaton?”

“But...”

“I brought him here,” he says again. “Ashland wrote to me six weeks ago. _Oh, Mr. Moriarty,_ they said, _our community leader is beginning to slip away. What on earth are we to do? You employ a ghoul. Surely you know some way to keep him from going feral?”_

Dessa flinches. So... so he really...

_This is his fault after all?_

Moriarty is silent for a few moments, and then scoffs. “Of course there's no way to keep a ghoul from going feral. I figured I'd ignore them, and let them deal with their own goddamn problems. But, then _you_ came into town. And you started your business. And I warned you, didn't I, that I'd find a way to make you wish you were never born?

“So I wrote back to Ashland. Told them to send him up, that I'd figure something out. Gave 'em a letter to show their ghoul, a means of makin' him come without knowing the real reason. Because if he knew, he'd never risk hurting another person, hm? He might go out into the wastes on his own. Or he might shoot himself and remove the danger. And of course I couldn't have that! Not when I had an upstart of a little girl to teach a lesson to.”

His voice is bitter. “I told 'em to keep him here as long as possible. Told them I would keep an eye on things, and if he got worse, I'd find a humane way to put him out of his misery.”

“You brought him here,” she says, stunned, “knowing that he'd want to stay at my place? Just on the off-chance that he really would go feral and kill me?”

“If not, there'd be other ways to get rid of you, lass,” he replies. “Figured that a feral ghoul would make it look like nothing more than a bad, grisly accident. Best way to keep myself clean. No mercs to hire, no real records. Just one dead ghoul who didn't know what he was doing, and a little girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Two beats of silence.

“But...” she gapes. “That's _evil!”_

“Nah,” he says. “Just ruthless. Were I evil, I wouldn't have given you a chance to shut down your business first.”

 _Oh god...!_ She really had underestimated him. She never could have imagined that he would be capable of something so horrible. Consigning a nineteen-year old girl to a slow death by feral ghoul? He'd known that Joss was slipping, had him sent here, and interacted with her several times,  _anticipating_ that in a few short days she'd be eaten alive.

How could this be her Match? Her other half?

And yet, how could she begrudge him, when Moriarty is the only one that was ever meant for her? Even now, she can't see herself with anyone else, let alone being happy with them. But... still. His callousness is frightening.

Dessa's voice is unsteady. “Do you really hate me that much?”

At this, he scrubs his face, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead.

“No,” he says quietly. “No, I never hated you. How could I? But emotion has no presence in business. Dessa...”

Her breath hitches, hearing him say her name for the first time since he's found out. It's worlds away from the mocking tones that he's always used before. His voice is raw and anguished, and at that moment, Dessa wants him to turn around and look at her, more than she's ever wanted anything in her life.

But... he doesn't. He clears his throat, runs a hand over his beard. “How is your shoulder doing?”

“I'm okay,” she says quietly. “Colin?”

“Yes, lass.”

“Why did you save me? Did Gob...”

“He told me, yes.” Moriarty's voice is tight, and finally— _finally—_ he stands, and turns to face her.

Still on her knees, Dessa's head tips up, meeting his gaze. She's helpless before him, weakened and tired, emotionally exhausted, but the sight of those steel blue eyes pins her to the bed.

“Why didn't you say anything?” he growls. “Lass, I could have lost you! I could have-”

Her Match breaks off, shaking his head, and looks away.

Her eyes fill with tears. _Don't turn away. Please._

“Are... are you mad?”

“Fucking hell, woman! I'm furious!” Moriarty explodes, and paces towards the bed. “You could have _died!_ And for what? Pettiness? Independence? You think any of that is worth yer fucking _life?”_

Dessa closes her eyes, slumping, pretending that his words haven't hurt her, that she's stronger than she really is, that the little sniffle that comes out isn't audible at all.

Moriarty swears again, dropping down onto the bed, and pulls her into his arms. The tears come down harder, and she presses her face against his chest. Furious or not, he's there, isn't he? He hasn't walked out on her.

He lets out a long sigh, and his lips brush against the top of her head. “This isn't over, Des,” he warns. “Once you're better, we're going to have a talk. Alright?”

“Mm,” Dessa agrees, wrapping her arms around him. _He's so warm._ And strong. She can't forget the ease of which he carried her through the town, before she passed out. He might be angry, but she's so, so thankful that he's still here.

“Thank you,” Moriarty whispers at last.

“Hm...?” Dessa's inquiry is drowsy, the medicine making her sleepy—she's still healing, and her Match's warmth is lulling her to sleep.

“For surviving,” he says. “For fighting. You are much, much stronger than I thought you were.”

He sounds fiercely proud, and Dessa smiles against the cotton fabric of his shirt. Her hands fist into his clothing for a brief moment, acknowledgment of his words, and just as quickly, her mind slips away, her breathing deepens. There's nothing but Moriarty's scent and his warmth and his slow, regular breathing, and then she's asleep.

 

 

 


	15. The Mark, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking that this fic would be around 15 chapters, but of course things never go as planned.

It's half-past four by the time Moriarty exits his room. _He's been in there forever._ Gob lifts his head, hearing the slow footsteps on the landing above him, and cuts a glance his way when the old man finally makes his way downstairs.

He looks... tired.

“How's she doing?”

“Still resting,” Moriarty answers, “but she woke up for a bit, a few minutes ago. I think she'll be alright.”

“I'm glad,” Gob says, and turns his attention to the glass that he's polishing. He might have saved Dessa's life, but he doesn't know how this might have changed things. Uncertain of Moriarty's disposition, he spent the entire morning and afternoon cleaning the bar. At this point, it's as spotless as it ever has been.

In his periphery, he watches Moriarty take all of this in, and then rap his knuckles on the bar once. “Good work today.”

That... is probably the first time his boss has given him genuine praise, and his skin prickles uncomfortably. _Moriarty?_ Being _nice?_ It doesn't fit.

“It was nothing.”

“You could have let her die.”

Gob raises his eyes, indignant, but Moriarty appears to be serious. “Are you messing with me? Of course I wouldn't do that! Dessa is my friend!”

“Not even knowing that she's my Match?”

He shakes his head, bitter. Hatred festers inside, an ulcer bitten-out with fifteen years of acid. “Don't overestimate yourself,” he spits. “You aren't important enough to make me want to allow one of the only kind people in this shithole to die... even if she does have the misfortune of being your Match.”

A rare piece of honesty, in a place where he's done nothing but apologize for his own existence. A week ago, Moriarty would have struck him for saying something so frank, but now, he only nods. “Still. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

There's a long pause, and Gob grits his teeth. He knows that Moriarty is mulling over his words, thinking, but he wishes that he would just... go do it somewhere _else._ No matter how the man's attitude towards him might have changed, his own feelings have not. To him, Moriarty will always be a selfish bastard with less empathy than a mirelurk.

“I owe you,” he says at last. “If you hadn't done anything, Dessa would be... _I_ would be... well, I suppose it hardly matters now. A debt is a debt. Everything you owe me is paid off, and then some. I'll give you three hundred caps, along with your freedom.”

Gob drops the glass he's holding.

And even though Moriarty's pained grimace turns hard and annoyed, he doesn't retract his words.

 _This is impossible. I'm dreaming, aren't I?_ Gob looks at his hands to see that they're shaking. _Free. I'm_ free? It doesn't compute, not after fifteen years. A part of him thought that he'd still be standing here a hundred years from now, polishing glasses, dripping sweat over the bar, getting punched by Jericho and Moriarty, listening to the bed upstairs squeak as Nova fucks yet another john.

But, it's only been fifteen years. _Hah. Only._ Listen to him. Feeling grateful and amazed when, in a perfect world, he wouldn't have been enslaved at all? Stupid.

He's grateful regardless.

“Do you mean it?” he stammers.

Moriarty scowls. “Have I ever spoken a word I haven't meant?”

Gob turns his attention to the door, where Nova has just walked in from her smoke break, grumbling and kicking dust off her shoes. She looks just as tired and pissed and grumpy as she always does, but in the new light of his freedom, Gob hasn't seen anything more beautiful.

“Nova! Did you hear any of that?”

“Gob, honey, I just walked in,” she says patiently.

“Mr. Moriarty, he's, he's—” The words aren't coming out right, and she probably thinks he's an idiot, but she's looking at him with a small smile anyway. As if what he thinks really matters, as if his useless words are of value to her.

“I'm free,” he says in wonder.

Her eyebrows go up first, and then her face brightens, utterly transforming her. A brilliant smile lights her face. _She's radiant._ It's the only thing that Gob can think, looking at her, and for a moment, he's lost for words. Reminds him of the first days that he knew her, before she'd been broken down by the hundreds of men over the long years. Back when she was fresh-faced and innocent.

That was five years ago, though.

“Oh my god! Gobbie, sweetie, are you serious?”

He can only nod, and Nova rushes forward, her arms outstretched. A coldness suddenly spreads through his limbs, tingling down into his fingers, and he pulls back just far enough to look at Moriarty.

“What about Nova?”

“What about her?” comes the retort.

Gob steps back, shaking his head. “Is she free, too?”

Moriarty scoffs. “Free? Why the hell would I free her? She didn't do anything.”

“But...”

“ _You_ were the one who saved my Match, lad. Not the little whore. And I'm guessing, Nova dear, that you knew who Dessa was all this time as well? And you never said anything?”

Nova steps back, and in an instant her shoulders are back to curling in on her, sheltering herself, her face going distant. Gob hates him, for ruining this rare moment of happiness.  _How often have I ever seen her so unburdened?_ And just as soon as it's arrived, Moriarty has to take it away.

“She asked us not to say anything,” Gob says fiercely. “As if either one of us would betray one of the only people to ever be kind to us!”

Nova mutters something under her breath, but doesn't say anything else; Moriarty looks back and forth between them, scowling.

“Even so, ignoring all that, Nova didn't give a cap's worth of help. I'm _fair,_ not a goddamn fool.”

Nova still looks disinterested, as if she's already bored of the conversation; she'd gone as far as rolling her eyes while Moriarty was talking. To anyone else, it would look like Nova was resigned to her position, or maybe like she's working for him not because of her debt, but because of a legitimate choice that she's made.

But Gob knows her. And when he looks at the angle of her pursed lips, he doesn't see mild irritation, or a thinly-veiled tolerance; he sees a mask. Well-concealed pain. Sadness. Hurt. A woman who is struggling under the weight of five years of slavery and being dragged down by hundreds of groping hands, attached to anonymous men and blank faces.

And before Moriarty has a chance to say another word, Gob already knows what he has to do.

“Forgive her instead.”

“Pardon?” Moriarty sputters out an astonished laugh.

“Nova's debts. Give her the three hundred caps that you were gonna give me. And forgive whatever she owes.”

He shakes his head, still laughing. “That's madness. You— _you—_ want to give up your freedom for a cheap hooker? What, fifteen years isn't enough for you?”

“I'm serious,” he protests, and he's not tempted to change his mind. Not in the least, and his desire to protect Nova only grows stronger when she grabs his arm, her eyes filling with tears: _Gobbie, no,_ she mouths, but he's determined.

“Come on, lad, think it over,” Moriarty wheedles instead. “You were the one who did all the hard work. You're the one I owe, not this Jet-huffing prostitute. I'd rather reward someone who's actually _done_ something.”

Gob takes a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to be arguing? Nova's got a limited number of years. I don't.”

“You know just how to convince me,” Moriarty says with a laugh, and shrugs. “Fine, fine. Nova dear... it's been lovely working with you, but if you're ready to go, you can go. Your debts are forgiven, and just as I'd promised Gob, I'll give you three hundred caps on your way out.

“Of course,” he adds, musingly, “You still have maybe five more years before you're too old to sell yourself. If you want to stay on...”

Nova grips his arm tighter, and he belatedly realizes that she hasn't let go of him yet. He looks down at her, waiting for her typical sarcastic reply, but her face is white, and he realizes that something is wrong.

“She'll think about it,” Gob says for her at last, worried.

Moriarty only shrugs and walks away, heading into his office.

“Gob,” she says desperately, “I can't go back.”

“You won't have to,” he tells her. “Moriarty's gonna give you caps, right? You can use that to buy a gun, and...”

“And go where?” Nova asks, her face wrecked with anguish. “I can't just leave you here!”

“Of course you can,” he soothes, although inwardly he's pleased that she's come to like him so much. “You'll still have enough caps left over to buy passage on with one of the caravans. All you need to do is make it down to Underworld. If you tell my moms that you know me, they'll take you in. Even without them, Nova, you're strong, and you're smart. No doubt you'll do better than I did, out there.”

He'll miss her. He really will. But now that he's made his decision, to sacrifice his own freedom for hers, he's content. It's as if everything has fallen into place; of _course_ he would give everything up for Nova. What else could he do? Nova is young and beautiful, and she has her whole life ahead of her. She's not a ghoul; as time goes on, she'll age, and become weak, and die. Gob? Well, Gob will continue on the same as always. And unless Moriarty becomes a ghoul (God forbid), eventually he'll die too, and Gob will be free.

And he'll miss seeing her tired smiles, the sound of her laughter, the color of her hair when the light hits it just so. The way her voice goes low and husky when she's teasing him.

In time, though, he'll forget her. And he'll be able to do it with a clear conscience, knowing that he was the one who had enabled her freedom and safety.

“I can't!” Nova cries, and shakes her head again. Angrily, she wipes the tears from her face, and whispers brokenly, “Gob... your Match... it's me.”

 

 

 


	16. The Match, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warned you that this was coming.

Gob reels back, as if he's been slapped. Of all the things that he expected to hear... Maybe a few protests, asking how she'll fare without him, wondering if he'll be okay without _her..._ but not this.

He's simultaneously elated and gutted.

_It's me._

He doesn't demand to see her Mark. There'll be time enough for that later, and even though his eyes drift down to the spot two inches below the waistband on her left thigh, he doesn't question her.

Not about that, anyway.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he rasps. His hands rise to cup her face, and her own fingers brush over his wrists. She doesn't push him away. He looks at the conflicting flesh, her own complexion of peaches and porcelain next to his own tones of infected red and aging, crusted yellow, and is amazed.

 _We've missed out on so many years._ How long has she known? For several months? Years? From the beginning of it all, when he first saw her in Megaton, a prideful and arrogant young woman who'd come to make her fortune? Or was it a month later, when her caps had run out and she was forced to take a loan from Moriarty? Was it three months from _that_ day, when she came back to the saloon, quiet and tearful, and stood beside him at the bar to sell her body?

No matter how much time has been lost, it's too much.

Nova shakes her head. “I couldn't.”

“You couldn't,” he repeats. Inwardly, he's disbelieving. Of course she could tell him! When has he ever given her cause to think that he would be upset, or angry? Hell, he'd shown her that he was interested just a few months after she'd joined him at the bar (after he had built up his courage, after she had settled into her role and began to smile again). Indignation rears within him. _Doesn't she know me at all? I thought we trusted each other! We were a team!_

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he pulls away to see Dessa fumbling with the banister as she starts down the stairs. She teeters, unsteady, and Gob swears furiously under his breath before rushing to help her.

“This conversation isn't over,” he tells Nova as he passes her, and then catches Dessa right as she topples over, narrowly avoiding falling down the stairs.

“Fucking hell, Dessa!” he exclaims. “What are you doing out of bed? You nearly died, and now you're trying to walk around?”

She blinks up at him, sheepish but smiling. “I woke up, and Moriarty wasn't there.”

His heart seizes for a moment, startled by her simple words— _how can she love him so much, when my own Match—when Nova—_ but then he pushes the thoughts away. Hurt and jealousy can come later. Much, much later. Hopefully when he's had more time to think about everything.

Nova scoffs, smirking. “You still call Colin by his last name?”

“I like his last name,” Dessa protests.

“You'd better,” Nova quips, “because you're stuck with it.”

 _Odessa Moriarty._ Gob supposes it has a ring to it. He doesn't know her actual last name, though, but he supposes it doesn't matter much anyway.

Dessa smiles at that. “So, uhm, did he step out?”

“In his office.”

“Good,” she says, with a sigh. “I was afraid that maybe—”

There's a sound that catches Gob's attention, and he glances over just as the office door flies open.

“I thought I heard...” Moriarty starts, looking around, and then catches sight of his Match on the stairs, still being supported by Gob. His eyes flick to him, then narrow, his mouth thinning.

 _Got it._ Gob steps away just as Moriarty storms up the stairs, and Dessa slumps against him with a happy sigh.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?” Moriarty demands. “Have you gone mad?”

“I didn't want to stay up there,” Dessa protests, and Moriarty mutters something under his breath before scooping her up in his arms.

“Fine. You want to be downstairs?” At her affirmation, he adds, “Nova, fetch her a blanket, would you?”

 _Nova's free and he's giving her orders already._ Gob doesn't say anything though; it would be incredibly petty for her to say no to him when it's for Dessa's sake.

“You should have called for me,” Moriarty chides, as Nova comes back downstairs; he takes the blanket from her without even a 'thank you' and tucks it around his Match's shoulders before settling her into a chair at the table nearest the stairs. “Or for one of these two louts. God knows _they're_ not doing anything useful.”

Dessa smiles, lowering her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You need anything else?” Moriarty looks around, as if he's going to find a list of all of Dessa's dreams and desires laying discarded on the nearest surface. “You... ah, you like Nuka-Cola, right? Do you want one of those?”

“That would be nice,” she says, wrapping the blanket around herself more tightly. “Maybe some hot food, too, if... if you have any? If not, that's okay.”

“Er... right.” Moriarty blinks and then walks away, his gait hurried and tense. It's as if now that Dessa has actually woken up, he's even more nervous than before.

Gob follows him, more amused than anything else, figuring he'll give Nova some time apart from him too. Angry as he is, he doesn't want to see her stressed and tearful. He can talk to her again when they're alone.

Moriarty rounds on him in less than a minute, after looking into the fridge with increasing anxiety. “Gob,” he hisses, “I can't give her any of this!”

He peers over Moriarty's shoulder. “What, three-day old iguana bits and moldy bread isn't going to cut it?” _Especially since no one has seen a live iguana since 2077._ There are various suppositions as to what exactly iguana bits _are,_ but no one wants to know badly enough to send it for testing with the Brotherhood. And definitely not when there's always someone hungry enough not to care.

Moriarty grumbles.

“You're not just going to cut off the mold and reheat the bits like you do with all the other customers?” Gob is only mostly joking.

“She's not a customer!”

“Are there any caravans in town today?” Gob asks slowly, glancing around for tins of non-perishable foods. Those are a lot more expensive (besides Cram, because it's hard to find anyone who enjoys eating that shit) but with Moriarty's panic, he's sure that it'll be fine.

“No, there aren't,” Moriarty says with finality. _As if he's doomed to failure already._ Gob has to avoid rolling his eyes. Moriarty, he thinks, has a touch of the dramatic to everything he does, whether it's _this,_ or complaining about Nova's attitude, or his dealings with customers. _Dessa had better have a hell of a lot of patience._

 _Aha, there it is._ He was hoping it was still here. Gob lifts to his toes, reaching for the highest shelf, and pulls down a can of apple pie filling. He glances at Moriarty, but the other man doesn't say anything. As far as genuine meals go, this isn't the healthiest, but the high sugar content along with the fact that tinned foods rarely go bad, a can of this size would probably sell for over one hundred caps. Apples themselves are nearly extinct and highly expensive, so to combine that with them being drowned in syrup and in a vacuum-sealed can, it's become a luxury item that few of Moriarty's customers would be able to afford.

Moriarty doesn't say anything when he opens it though, and only pushes him aside when he sets a bowl of it on their hot plate.

“Step back,” he growls. “You're only going to drip in it.”

Gob has to bite his tongue. “Yes, sir.”

The aroma of the apple slices heating fills the air, and even Nova deserts Dessa's side to poke her head over Moriarty's shoulder. “Oh my god, what is that? It smells delicious.”

“Not for you,” Moriarty scoffs. “What does it matter?”

“Ugh. Don't start with me, Colin. I'm not even allowed to know what it is?”

“It smells like apples?” Dessa calls. “Mrs. Palmer used to make apple cobbler before we ran out of mix when I was thirteen.”

It's soon finished, and Moriarty delivers it with dignified aplomb, as if he'd been in control of the situation the entire time. He drops a kiss on top of Dessa's head as he places it before her, and Gob and Nova exchange an exasperated glance; the girl's turned crimson at the small display of affection.

The three of them stay silent as Dessa sticks a fork into a slice of apple, and she glances at them shyly, seeming surprised that their attention is on her. Quickly, she takes a bite.

“How is it?” Moriarty asks, resting a hand on her back.

She's still blushing, but not as hard as before. She smiles up at him, cants a sideways look at Nova (who is clearly eyeing up the bowl), and says, “Can you get three more bowls?”

Gob smiles.

 

* * *

 

Dessa wakes up Moriarty's bed. There's another rush of confusion as she tries to remember why this room looks so familiar, and then she sees him standing by the window, clad in only a thin, stained undershirt and his dark gray jeans. His arms are crossed, and he looks irritated.

It's nighttime, judging by the full-on black beyond the window. Dessa blinks with effort, forcing herself awake, and glances at her Pip-Boy. _Ugh, 2 AM. Why is he still awake?_

“Planning on joining me?” Her sultry tone is spoiled by the yawn at the end of the sentence.

Moriarty turns, and his jaw works as his eyes sweep over her.

 _Not angry. Passionate._ The fire in his gaze surprises her, and instinctively, she draws the bedsheets higher over her chest. _Am I blushing? Oh, god. He looks like he wants to eat me alive._

“No,” he says shortly. “You're not well.”

“I guess not,” she says, shrugging. She doesn't remember falling asleep. The last thing she'd known, she was at the table downstairs with her soul mate and Gob and Nova. _Did I pass out in some kind of sugar coma? I hope not, because d_ _amn, that apple pie filling was delicious. I wonder if there's any left..._ “So, uhm, what happened?”

“You passed out, again,” Moriarty growls, and then takes a deep breath. “In exhaustion, though, not... I gave you another stim and some more Med-X, although Doc Church told me it wouldn't be necessary.”

“Thank you.”

“No need,” he mutters. “It's my fault you're in this mess, after all.”

“And my fault too, apparently,” she points out, remembering their argument from earlier in the day. And yawns again.

Moriarty lets out a short laugh. He looks tired. The lines on his face are deeper than usual. “Now is hardly the time, lass. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“Come to bed,” she says, scooting over. Another yawn. _That Med-X is some powerful stuff._ “You must be exhausted.”

Her Match hesitates. “I don't want to sleep. If your condition worsens—”

“Then you'll be right beside me if anything happens.” Dessa blinks up at him. “Please?”

 _You make me feel safe._ The words burn inside her throat, but it's too early to say them. _I want you with me. The only time I feel whole is when I'm at your side._

He looks at her, and she smiles at the sight of those shrewd blue eyes turned on her, weighing her as if she's some kind of trap. “Alright,” he says at last, and reaches for his waistband.

Dessa's eyebrows go up as he pops the button on his jeans. _Didn't know that coming to bed would entail a strip tease._ Moriarty doesn't even seem to be aware that he's doing it. His gaze is searing her skin, his breath coming faster as he steps out of his pants, kicking them to the side as he approaches her. He's sporting a semi as he climbs in beside her, and Dessa glances down at it for one traitorous second before turning away, blushing hard. _Calm down. He already said that nothing would happen._

It's obviously not because he doesn't want her. He wouldn't have popped a partial-erection if he weren't interested in her. It could just be, though, that it's simple biology. They're Matches, after all, and she's a young woman in his bed at night.

He might not _really_ want her. _Isn't this sort of mixed up? Isn't_ he _supposed to be the one feeling disappointed that nothing's happening?_

_Although..._

Her lips curl up, briefly. She'd never considered herself to be one, but... _I'm a bit of a flirt, aren't I? I liked Gob when I first spoke to him. I think I might have teased him a little too. And I like flirting with Moriarty. A lot._

She shakes her head. _What has the wasteland done to me?_

And then, she follows her instincts, rolls over, and slides a hand over Moriarty's torso.

He's left the bedside light on, too focused on getting to her side, so there's just enough lighting for her to see his pupils blow wide. He lets out a small noise, stunned, and pushes a few strands of silver hair out of his face.

“Dessa...”

“Didn't you say you weren't interested in sleeping?” she purrs.

Her hand slips beneath his undershirt, and Moriarty grunts. Oh _hell._ He's soft and padded, filled out with the weight that comes with age, but beneath the thin layer of fat is a set of washboard abs. He's so _strong._ She knew he was, of course, but to see his strength is a little different from touching his bare stomach. Better yet because he's half-propped up, staring at her hungrily, engaging his core muscles, inadvertently flexing for her pleasure.

“You're... drugged,” he reminds her, and his eyes go half-lidded as the side of her thumbnail scrapes along his navel.

“Hmm,” Dessa says, not listening. She's too busy enjoying the downright naughty sensation of his undershirt pulling along the back of her hand, as if it's simultaneously trying to get in her way and trap her hand against his belly.

Why does this feel so _wrong_ and so _right_ at the same time?

“The Med-X,” he says again, and hisses when Dessa's thumb grazes his nipple. _That shirt's got to go._ Carefully, she guides it over his head, and he doesn't fight her. The action lifts her, and she takes advantage of the motion by spreading her legs and straddling him. She's not really sure what the point of this is, other than that women are supposed to keep their legs wrapped around a man during sex for some reason, because opening herself up is almost _painful._ She's throbbing in places she's never felt anything before, and—

 _Oh._ Dessa groans out loud. That's why. Sitting back places her right on top of something hard and rigid and _exquisite._ She's glad that she kept to herself during her years in the Vault. Dessa doesn't think that losing her virginity to any other man would be half as fun, or _delectable._ Anticipation makes her wriggle down harder, losing herself in the sensation of rubbing her soaked panties against the front of his boxers.

“I can't fight this, lass,” Moriarty groans, and his hands come up to her hips as he gives her a delicious little push of his groin. “You have to tell me to stop. Yer not—you aren't...”

“Med-X is supposed to make me sleepy,” she reminds him, finally paying attention to his words. “And make me feel... less. I'm not feeling tired at all.”

“Then...”

Dessa leans down, pressing her elbows into the pillow, and digs her fingers into his hair just before pressing her lips to his. Their teeth collide in their collective inexperience, and she tastes blood on his lip.

It doesn't matter. They're too inflamed, lost in a rush of passion. He makes a small, hitching noise in the back of his throat, and his hands knead her hips.

“I want you,” she says plainly, once she's pulled away. Her mouth is wet with saliva and blood and her body is on fire. Seeing Moriarty beneath her with the dim lightbulb making his silver hair glow gold is the best thing she's ever had. More delicious than apple pie and just as awe-striking as her first glimpse of sunlight. It's more than she ever could have imagined. Better than her dreams of soft-skinned kids her own age, no, this is different. This is no childish fling with a teenage boy. This is raw and real and looking at his lined face, her body is inspired with hunger. And she knows that no matter how old she grows, no matter what happens in her life, no matter how long she lives without Moriarty by her side—because she knows that there will come a time when she won't have him, as nothing truly good can stay forever—that she will never,  _never_ forget this moment.

“Take me.”

 

 

 


	17. The Mission, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a hell and a half, lemme tell ya

It's like flipping a switch.

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she _thumps_ down on her back and blinks, disoriented—he's rolled them over.

 _Oh god._ This is so much better. His weight rests fully on top of her, his groin heavy against the cradle of her hips. She adjusts herself, and her thighs twitch automatically, muscles grasping at her Match's sides. _More, harder, anything._ She doesn't know what she needs, other than that she needs it _now._

Silver hair cascades around her, drowning out the light. Stale cigarette breath soft against her lips. She can barely see the faintest glimmer of his eyes, and then the flutter of lashes as he closes them and leans back in towards her mouth.

“Colin,” she whispers, and she's almost startled out of her train of thought by his hips jerking automatically when she says his name. _He likes it when I say his name... I'm going to have to remember that._ More important things to focus on right now though. “Are you, uhm... have you done this before?”

“I know what I'm doing,” he growls, and Dessa blinks.

_Is he... defensive about this?_

“I just wanted to know, because, well, it's my first time...” she trails off, then starts again, “Gob said that you didn't spend much time with, uh. Sex.”

 _I'm killing the mood. Great._ She wants to know, though. She's spent too long being frightened about Moriarty hurting her in bed to not be hesitant about it, at least a little.

Dessa wants this, wants _him,_ but she wants to be prepared, and she certainly doesn't want to be hurt.

“Lass,” he says eventually, “you don't run a bar for thirty-five years without picking up a few tips for the bedroom. This may be my first tumble in the sheets, but I'm not about to hurt you.”

She can't help her gasp, nor the pleasure that follows. “You waited? For me?”

“Aye, although I hadn't wanted to at first,” Moriarty mutters. He pauses, then shakes his head, laughing a little. He props himself on his elbows and pulls back a bit farther. His eyes are warm.“I, uh, had been interested in some girls when I was a little younger than you. My pa caught me necking one of them when I was fifteen. He was... not very happy. Hell, I still have the scars from the lashing he gave me. If that didn't teach me, I'd decided on my own to wait regardless, once I was much older. Saw too many relationships go sour. I wanted the real thing.”

“You have it,” she tells him.

“Mm,” he agrees, and then his eyes turn to the row of buttons down her blouse. His eyes are lit up with greed, lascivious, and she can't help but think, _this is exactly the expression he has when he's thinking about money._ For goodness sake.

Calloused fingers tease at the buttons, exposing inch by inch smooth and pale skin. Moriarty's expression is one of intense focus, broken only when he helps her out of the sleeves and his eyes catch on her bandaged shoulder.

His expression changes, as his gaze sticks and his breathing slows. Sorrow, guilt, anger.

Dessa taps his bare shoulder, hesitant. His skin is both warmer and smoother than she'd expected—it's free from the sparse hair that covers his chest and lower belly. “Enough of that. You said we'd talk about it later.”

Moriarty grunts, his attention turning to her skirt, and slides it off her hips with a few short tugs; Dessa flinches. She hadn't realized he'd hooked her panties as well until they were off, leaving her pussy exposed to the warm air. _Too fast._ Her legs press together, and her hands fist in the sheets as she resists the urge to cover herself. The only thing separating them now is Moriarty's boxers and a few inches of empty air.

“Turn over,” he growls. “Let me see your Mark.”

Dessa complies, happy to have the mattress shielding her front. She feels less exposed this way, and thrills at the thought of him lavishing attention on the small brown splotch on her lower back. Her soulmate lets out a pleased rumble. His thumb rubs against the Mark, and then holds her down for a brief moment while he undoes her bra.

“Hey!”

Moriarty hums. “You were the one who asked for this.”

 _As if you weren't panting with lust just a second ago!_ “You could have warned me.”

He chuckles. “I'll do that next time.”

The bed creaks as he shifts his weight, and she feels his breath ghost over her back. She shivers, and his hands come up to knead her flesh as he presses a kiss to their Mark. His beard tickles, and the shiver returns, stronger.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, lifting his head again.

“Yes.”

This time he nips the Mark, and then kisses it just as quickly, soothing the reddened spot with his tongue—it's as if she's been struck. _Too good._ She's never felt anything like it—has no frame of reference for the feeling of her Match's tongue on her skin, the wet heat combined with his insistent arousal against her legs. A shockwave of sensation radiates through her body, making her hands twitch and her toes curl.

He laughs, deep and smug. “Oh, lass, do I like that sound...”

_Oh god. Did I moan out loud?_

He buries his face against her back, kissing and licking hungrily, a pleased hum vibrating through his chest. Pressure is building, in her shoulders and sides and core. Something like terror grips at her lungs, freezing her breath, even as she digs her hips into the mattress. _What have I gotten myself into?_ She's suddenly conscious of her body, the banality of their actions, and most importantly, the permanence of their actions. _Once this is done... there's no taking it back._

“Turn over,” he orders, and his voice is hoarse with lust. “I'm getting impatient.”

She obeys despite her fear, and he pauses at the sight of her trepidation.

“Alright, Dessa?”

“Mm,” she agrees, not trusting her voice. She feels stupid. She should want this more. Just a bit ago she was more than ready to lose herself in him, and now she's paralyzed with fear and uncertainty. It's impossible to look at her Match in the eyes—she's unable to meet his gaze, and so she turns her head to the side.

Moriarty drops his head against her neck, and she startles. Hot air blows out against her skin as he sighs, “Don't be like that, lass. I can wait.”

“Wait? Why would you wait?”

She hates the nervous tremble in her voice.

“There's no rush,” he tells her. “I'm not about to let you go. There are other nights.”

“But...”

“Shh. You're still exhausted.” Moriarty scoots away, untangling their legs. “I can wait a few more days. I've waited years for you, lass. I have more patience than you might give me credit for.”

She smiles, a little of her nervousness ebbing away, and crosses her arm over her breasts. “That's true, I guess. Sorry. And thank you.”

“My aim isn't to make you uncomfortable,” he says at last, and clicks off the bedside lamp. In the darkness, she quietly puts her undergarments back on, embarrassed. But at least now that she's partially clothed, she doesn't mind creeping forward and pressing her foot against his calf.

“Fuck!” Moriarty hisses. “Your feet are icy!”

Dessa giggles, and the tension eases. Grumbling to himself, Moriarty opens his arms, turns to his side, and lets Dessa steal his warmth.

 

* * *

 

Gob has no idea how long he's been at work, but for once he doesn't mind. He'd rather have something to focus on—he doesn't want to return to the bar anytime soon.

Doesn't want to return to Nova. Not yet, anyway.

Joss's remains are disgusting to wipe up off the floor and walls, but if nothing else the radiation gives him a boost of energy. It's even more potent than the nuke, which is saying something. His skin ripples and shivers when he gets within three inches of the luminescent gore. Given how strong the rads are, he's spent quite a few hours out here at the bed and breakfast, cleaning, but mostly because the trips out of the town take so long.

He's been burying the body parts near Vault 101. A kind of spiteful revenge on the residents who kicked Dessa out. The rads aren't going to get anywhere near them, but it makes him feel a little better to turn their front yard into a cemetery. _Bastards._

He's wiping down the walls with a wet cloth when the door opens behind him.

“Gob?”

His heart stutters in his chest.

“Nova,” he says, without turning around. He scrubs harder. “It's better now, but you still shouldn't be in here. The radiation isn't going to go away that quickly. There's going to be remnants for years.”

“I'll be okay,” she says, and he can hear her stepping around the debris behind him. “Damn. That feral really messed this place up.”

He drops the cloth into a bucket once it starts to shrivel and smoke, and then gets a fresh one. “Mm, they tend to do that.”

“Have you seen many ferals before?” Nova asks.

“Dr. Barrows keeps two Glowing Ones in his lab,” he says, eventually. _Although she already knows._ She's already asked him this question before, even if she doesn't remember it. “There are some in Underworld's basement, too. This is the first time I've seen one attacking people, though.”

Nova hesitates. “It... it _was_ Joss, right? Since I haven't seen him at all...”

“Yes.”

“Awful,” she whispers, and Gob turns his head. She's still facing away from him, looking at the wreckage of Dessa's home.

_It hurts to look at her._

He stares anyway, a little longer than he'd intended, because after a few more moments of silence, she turns, and _screams._

Gob is reacting before he can think, leaping off the stairs, towards her— _need to help her, is she okay, is she hurt?—_ but to his horror, she flinches and shrinks back, and falls over backwards into a pile of junk. She's reacting as if she's terrified, like he's some kind of grotesque monster coming at her. And she's _never_ reacted that way to him, not even when they first met, so it can't be anything like that, right? Something must be wrong—

“Nova!” he gasps, and reaches out.

She's shaking, and even crying a little. This is more frightening than just about anything he's ever experienced, because Nova _never_ cries. She had at the beginning of her employment with Moriarty, but she's strong, she's unflappable. Even when she's been beaten and hurt, she's more angry than anything else.

At long last, still shuddering, she peeks up at him. “G-Gobbie?”

He touches her arms, and she flinches again. Lets out a hiss of pain. He draws back quickly. Where he'd touched her, red marks are forming.

_Burns?_

“Your eyes are glowing,” she says.

Gob touches his face, and then blinks. “Ah. Wait, _glowing?”_

She nods, and in the semi-darkness of Dessa's bed and breakfast, he realizes that he can see little green lights in the darkness of her eyes, where his own luminescence reflects back at him.

_Shit._

 

 

 


	18. The Moll, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not dead

 

 

Gob takes a deep breath, staring into what's left of the mirror in Dessa's bathroom. Aware of Nova hovering behind him, close but not close enough to get burnt by the radiation still leaking out of him, invisible but malignant, like the creeping poison of carbon monoxide.

“I'm sure it's just temporary,” he says at last.

Nova doesn't answer him, just bites her lip. Neither of them voice their concerns—that they've been watching for over ten minutes and the glow hasn't faded.

If he didn't look nightmarish before, he certainly looks it now. His eyes are the only part of him that's shining, but they're overly bright—it's not just a faint shimmer, it's a full-on _light,_ as if he's got flames burning behind his irises. Enough that it illuminates the skin around his face, and is visible even when he closes his eyes. He squints one eye shut and peers at the other half of his face. He can see the veins of his eyelid, dark lines across that sickly green glow.

“I guess it'll take time to go away,” Nova agrees tentatively. “You've been exposed to high levels of radiation for hours now.”

Neither of them voice the possibility that it could be permanent. Or, worse yet, that this is a sign of a more severe metamorphosis. One where he goes from just plain old Gob, grotesque and dripping, to Gob the Glowing One, inherently poisonous and more than likely feral.

“Mm,” Gob agrees, blinking and unnerved. He steps away from the mirror, mindful of Nova behind him, and heads back downstairs. He doesn't think about how dangerous he is right now—instead, he sits heavily on the floor by the staircase and buries his head in his hands.

Nova is quiet for a little bit, and when he looks back up, he's horrified to see that she has her hands outstretched towards him, as if she's about to touch him.

“Don't!”

But her hands stay right where they are, and Gob's eyes widen.

 _Fuck._ She's _warming_ herself by him. As if he's a campfire.

Her face is soft in wonder, her features ethereal in the near-darkness.

“You're warm,” she says.

“You're cooking yourself!” he gasps, appalled. “Get away from me! We don't know how radioactive I am!”

“Oh,” Nova says, backing away suddenly. “Right.”

“In fact,” Gob says, “you shouldn't be in here at all. Why did you come over here anyway? What time is it?”

“Around two,” Nova says, looking embarrassed. “Uhm, so... I had to come over, I didn't really have any other choice. You see...”

And she pauses. _Nova, not being forthcoming with something? Must be bad._

“I think I caught the beginning of Colin and Dessa having sex.”

Gob blanches.

“There was _no way in hell_ I was going to stick around for that. As soon as I heard moaning, I got the fuck out of there.” Nova shudders dramatically.

“Please don't say anything further,” Gob says, sickened.

“God, how could she do something like that?” Nova continues. “With _Colin?_ I mean, I've been with more than a few nasty johns, but honestly. I bet he has really saggy—”

“Nope, no, I'm not listening!”

Nova cackles. For a moment, Gob has forgotten his predicament—he's far enough away from Nova that she doesn't reflect his light, and she's laughing, and he can't help but smile back at her. He'd been thinking about her, while he was here in the bed and breakfast, cleaning up Dessa's home. He's grateful to be with her again.

And then he remembers Joss, and the radiation, and his fleeting happiness disappears.

“You can't stay here though,” he says. “Even if I go outside Megaton, there's still too much danger from what's left of the Glowing One.”

“You can tell?” Nova asks, surprised.

“Mm,” he says, standing. He looks towards the spot where Joss had left the most goop, and it's like turning his face towards a flame. His skin prickles, and he can feel the whole front of his body heating. “I'm like a bad Geiger counter. I can tell it's there, but not how much.”

“Great,” Nova says dryly. “Well, there goes the hope of being able to sleep in Dessa's bed. I'd stay up later, but... God, I'm exhausted. Maybe Jericho'll have an extra blanket for me. He owes me a favor anyways.”

Gob does _not_ want to know what that favor might be from, so he doesn't ask.

Nova pauses at the door. “Oh, and I'll see about getting someone to come in to fix that Mr. Handy that Joss destroyed. It'll probably be able to help get rid of the radiation out of the house. Aren't they supposed to have built-in air purifiers?”

Gob shrugs. “I don't know.”

He wonders if it'll still work. Even after getting put back together, the damage that Joss did to the poor machine must have been astronomical. And with the cost of replacement parts, he wonders if it wouldn't just be easier for Dessa to find a new Mr. Handy.

“And...” Nova bites her lip. “Stay inside for the rest of tonight, okay? I don't want you walking around town with glowing eyes. You might end up getting shot.”

“Right,” he agrees.

Neither one of them talk about what will happen if it doesn't go away.

 

* * *

 

Dessa wakes up the instant she loses skin-to-skin contact with Moriarty, and without thinking (and still mostly asleep), she reaches out and grabs blindly.

There's a very undignified noise from her Match, a long pause, and then:

“Mind telling me why yer grabbing my arse, lass?”

Dessa lets go abruptly, his voice doing wonders at waking her up, and very quickly buries her face into the pillows with a groan. She's surprised that her blush doesn't set the fabric on fire. “Sorry, I was still sleeping, I think.”

“Likely excuse,” he teases.

“Well,” Dessa says, her voice still muffled by the pillow, “you can hardly blame me. It's a very nice ass.”

She listens to the sounds of him dressing, and takes a peek at her Pip-Boy. _Just a little after six. Doesn't the bar usually open a little earlier than that? He must have slept in._ She wonders if it's because he wanted to spend more time in bed with her, or if it's just because he was tired. Maybe it's a combination of both.

Moriarty leans across the bed, and Dessa has just enough time to wonder what he's doing before he presses a kiss directly between her shoulder blades—a shiver runs the full length of her spine, the sensation of his beard against her bare skin still a novelty.

“Go back to sleep,” he says throatily. “Come down whenever you wake up. I'll have breakfast ready for you.”

“Mm,” she mumbles, and falls back asleep.

Waking up in his bed a few hours later is a luxury. She stretches out happily, her legs sliding through the sheets. This time, she knows exactly where she is, and... she feels safe.

It's a good feeling, and it doesn't last very long.

“Dessa!” a voice sings outside her door, just before there's a few knocks. “Hey, lovely, are you awake?”

She sits up and scrambles for her shirt—Moriarty's is the closest and she decides it'll have to do. “Nova? Uhm, yeah, come in.”

The door opens promptly, and Nova gives her a wry expression, gaze dipping down meaningfully at Dessa's too-large shirt, before kicking the door shut. “Hey, darlin'. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she says honestly. She isn't as dizzy today, and her head feels more clear. Upon sitting up, though, her shoulder seizes and Dessa lets out a pained grunt, hand flying to her mutilated shoulder. It's not in the _same_ kind of pain, but locked up, scar tissue irritating the lines of muscle within.

Nova clicks her tongue. “Here,” she says, and sits down behind Dessa. A second later her hands are gently running over Dessa's shoulder, and then digging into disfigured muscle.

She sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“Don't,” Nova says lightly. “Used to do this for johns all the time, and you're a lot prettier than they were.”

It starts to get a little painful, but Dessa doesn't say anything. She figures that Nova knows what she's doing.

_Wait... used to? Were?_

“Nova,” she says, her eyes widening with hope, “did something happen?”

The other woman hums. “Thank your man. He decided to free Gob, but he turned it down so that I could go free instead. My debts are forgiven, and Colin even said he'd give me three hundred caps bonus. Of course, that was supposed to go to Gob, but...”

Dessa's fists clench, and her eyes fill up without her volition. She immediately wants to run to her Match, but she stops herself, willing her body to remain seated. _Moriarty did it. Two of the things I wanted, I have already. Respect, and Nova's freedom._

_Did he do this for me, or was it something to satisfy himself?_

The answer doesn't really matter.

“I'll get him to free Gob, too,” she says.

“Thanks, hon,” Nova says agreeably, and it's with all the false and cheerful certainty of a mother listening to a little girl saying that she'll marry a prince someday. _She doesn't believe me._ “If anyone deserves to be free, it's him. He's the best man in the town.”

Dessa makes a noise of agreement, wondering if that's a betrayal of her Match. _Is it wrong to say if it's true?_ Hell, Moriarty would probably agree with her. He knows as well as anyone else that he's not the greatest human being around.

But he's far from the worst. He'd never have let Nova go otherwise.

“By the way,” Nova says, “you've got a friend waiting on you downstairs.”

Dessa blinks back into focus. _A friend?_ Her only friends, really, were Gob and Nova and Moriarty. Joss, were he still alive. The only other people who might care enough to come check up on her would be Simms and maybe—

“Crap,” she mutters. “Jenny Stahl?”

“The one and only,” Nova confirms. “She heard you were here and insisted on bringing you breakfast. I told her you'd be down when you were able.”

“Of course.” Dessa sighs. “And I'm sure Moriarty's giving her shit for it.”

Nova chuckles. “Must have been awfully worried about you to drag her ass into a _low-class_ establishment,” she says, mocking Jenny's blatant hatred of the saloon—it makes Dessa wonder if Jenny hasn't taken out some of her irritation on Nova. “Although it's probably got more to do on spying on just how bad Colin's practices are compared to hers rather than genuine concern.”

“She doesn't know that he's my soul mate,” she says, and stretches forward, shrugging off Nova's hands. “Thanks for telling me. And for helping me with my shoulder. I'd better go down there before they antagonize each other too much.”

There's a snort behind her. “Pants, first,” Nova reminds her. “Although, _god,_ to see Jenny's face if you came downstairs dressed only in Colin's shirt...”

Blushing, Dessa retrieves her skirt off the floor, and then pauses, wondering what she should do about the shirt. Nova is right. If she goes downstairs like this, in Moriarty's discarded clothing from the night before, it'll be obvious who he is to her—if not a Match, then a lover, and if not a lover, then still someone she's comfortable with, someone with which she can share intimacies and friendship. It _will_ make Jenny angry, but then again, her friend will be angry either way. She's kept secrets, withheld truths, and all for selfish reasons. She used Jenny, and Billy Creel, all because she wanted to stay independent of Moriarty and prove to him that she was a woman worthy of his respect.

And now she has what she wants.

She could prolong the situation. She could go down there and play coy, wearing the bloodstained blouse from two nights ago, the fabric mangled from Joss's vicious teeth—smile pretty and accept sympathy for her injury as her Match looks on in guarded silence. She can imagine how he would look at her, going from pleased to impatient to surly. As if her Match is someone that she allows because his wealth and influence suits her, as if belonging to him is a role she can slip on and off with ease. _He would think that I am ashamed of him,_ she thinks, and her heart twists.

“No more lies,” she mutters to herself, and leaves Moriarty's shirt on.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes to Cocoa, who is incredibly helpful with motivating me and keeping me from being lazy... thanks Cocoa! <3


	19. The Money, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eye twitches*  
> why did I think that mirroring chapter names and storylines would be a good idea?  
> so this chapter has basically nothing to do with caps but it's here, ok

Gob adjusts the sunglasses he'd found in Dessa's closet, nervous but unable to wait around any longer. After spending a restless night cooped up in his friend's wrecked home, not having heard from Nova since the evening before, he'd needed to get out of the house before he goes insane. The light hasn't disappeared from his eyes.

It's gotten stronger.

_A Glowing One._ He doesn't want to acknowledge what he's turning into, but it's inevitable—all that he's been able to think about during those long hours while hiding in Dessa's bed and breakfast. Enormously radioactive, far stronger than the average ghoul, crazed and mindless.

He's not sure how much longer he can stay in Megaton. A few days, at most, though he's not sure he wants to risk going feral and hurting the townspeople. But, if there's something he can do to stop or stall the process...

Doc Church isn't going to help him, he knows that. More likely, as soon as he realizes what's wrong with Gob, he'd shoot him with the 9mm he keeps holstered on his belt. The doctor has less sympathy than a Mirelurk.

However, Church isn't the only person in the town with medical training.

Gob clears his throat, and knocks on the door. “Moira?”

It's too early for the Craterside Supply to be open, but he's sure that she won't turn him away, once she understands his predicament. Her scientific mind is far too curious, and beyond that, she has a good heart. He's more concerned about her bodyguard's reaction.

“Moira, please. It's important.”

His breath huffs out in a sigh of relief as he hears footsteps inside, and then the door is opening.

“Gob?” Moira's hair is a tangled mess, spilling around her shoulders. He sees her bodyguard a few feet behind her, hand on his holster. He doesn't like Gob, never has.

“Can I talk to you? Alone?”

He can almost see the gears turning in her head; worry and doubt play over her face for a moment, and then she nods. “Yeah, come on in. Desmond, wait upstairs for me, okay?”

Her bodyguard agrees, though grudgingly. “Call me if you need anything.”

And to Gob, he says: “You're dead if anything happens.”

“Got it,” he replies meekly.

Desmond shoots him one last suspicious glance before shuffling up the stairs, heavy boots clunking on each step. It seems to last an eternity, as Gob twists his fingers together and waits, avoiding Moira's pointed silence, until he thinks the bodyguard is out of earshot. Until he can't stall it any longer, can't stand the anxiety of the many terrible possibilities.

He takes off the sunglasses. Moira's gasp is painfully loud in the stagnant air.

“Oh my god!”

Upstairs, Desmond's boots thunk towards the stairwell, halted only by Moira's hasty, “We're _fine,_ Desmond!”

There's a huff from the stairway, and Gob blinks worriedly at the silence, but Desmond is apparently staying right where he is at the top of the stairs. Presumably listening, and of course Moira is too distracted to tell him off.

She's already rummaging around her janky old chemistry set, pulling out vials and needles and a very large ticking device that clicks louder and faster as she approaches him. A Geiger counter, Gob realizes, but he's never seen one so big.

“It's military-grade,” she tells him, noticing his glance. “About as accurate as you can get. Well, I think so, anyways. It never stops ticking, but I can't tell if it's supposed to be doing that or not. Maybe I can get someone to test its calibration. There has to be some place completely unaffected by the bombs, right? If I could get someone into that Vault...”

“Moira,” Gob says.

“Right. Well, fortunately, it looks like you're only putting out a fraction of a rad per second... that's good! It's still enough to kill a person within a day, though.”

Gob blanches and backs up; Moira only laughs before gulping down some Rad-X with a large swig of Nuka-Cola.

“Don't worry about it. The shop has been through worse. How are you feeling, though? This is so fascinating! Come on, don't be shy! No one's ever cataloged anything like this. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for me!”

Gob wets his lips, looking around helplessly before returning his gaze to Moira, poised with a pencil to a journalist's pad. “Well... I honestly don't feel any different than before. Scared, of course. I don't want this to be permanent. Or to go feral.”

“Huh!” Moira scribbles something down. “Do you really think you will? Go feral, I mean?”

“Uhm. Nearly all Glowing Ones _are_ feral. It's more likely than not.”

“But how many of these were ghouls _before_ they turned?”

Gob blinks. “Well, Joss, for one.”

“Duh! Joss, of course. Hm... you met him before he turned, right? And you were there afterwards.”

“And I cleaned up the mess,” he says, miserable. It doesn't need saying that this was probably the reason for Gob's turning. Why didn't he ask Moriarty to find someone else to do it? It's not even like anyone asked him. He just did it, of his own volition, because he wanted to help out Dessa. _Because I'm a ghoul, and I didn't want anyone to get hurt by the radiation._

Dammit.

“That could definitely be a trigger,” Moira muses. “But was it from the amounts of radiation, or from something specifically coming from Joss? Is it possible that Glowing Ones carry some sort of communicable biochemical...? Say, you don't happen to have anything, you know, _left over?_ From him?”

Gob makes a face. “You want some of the remains?”

“Yeah!”

Ugh. Well, he doesn't mind fetching some radioactive goop for Moira, not with all she's done for him: not screaming, not calling Desmond back down, not ratting him out and getting him shot, or exiled, or killed via some sort of public humiliation-style execution.

“I'll need a sample from you, too,” she tells him when he returns with a jar full of glowing ick. Gob doesn't want to pay close attention to what he'd scooped out, but there's skin, pus, blood, and— _nope, stop looking, Gob._

“Right,” he says, queasy.

“Just blood,” she says. A bright smile, presumably intended to disarm, only makes Gob swallow hard and back away until his hip smacks into the edge of a counter. “Oh, don't be a baby. It won't hurt a bit.”

She's right. It _doesn't_ hurt, but it's not exactly comfortable. He can't watch (as often as he's watched his own blood be spilled) and Moira gives him a sympathetic pat on the arm when she's finished.

Moira looks at the vial for a moment, swirls it once, and then says, “Hit the lights, won't you?”

Gob obeys, unquestioning but curious, while Moira closes the curtains. It's dark, but there's still enough light for him to see Moira dig into her pocket for a penlight—two loud clicks, and Gob flinches.

The vial of blood— _his blood—_ is now glowing.

“Huh,” Moira says, and places it onto a rack.

She turns the lights back on, and Gob blinks at her, stunned. “What did you do?”

“Oh, that was just a blacklight. A visual representation of a Geiger counter, I guess. If my machine was acting up, then this shows that, well, yes. It's not just your eyes, or trace amounts on your skin. It's _inside_ you, in your blood. You're thoroughly irradiated. And it definitely looks like you're turning.”

Gob lets out a choked noise and collapses against the wall.

 

“You lied to me,” Jenny says, once Dessa is finished telling her side of the story. She's calmer than Dessa had expected, although her posture is unnaturally stiff. She doesn't seem angry, just... disappointed. It's uncomfortable. More so for Dessa than most people, since she's so bad at confrontations.

If it were just her, she'd avoid the conversation altogether. But it affects Moriarty, too, and she can't do that to him.

Dessa thinks about arguing semantics—how she didn't _actually_ lie, not really—she just withheld information. _A lot of information._ But there are times when debating innocence is a good idea, and times when it is not, and Dessa is beginning to learn the difference between the two.

“I did,” she says.

Jenny tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting out a short, unamused laugh. “You aren't the least bit apologetic, are you?”

“I did what I had to so that I could survive,” Dessa says simply. “I wasn't sure about Moriarty at that point.”

“And you're sure about him _now?”_ Jenny asks, aghast.

“He's proven himself,” she says, and looks over at her Match. Moriarty is sliding Burke a glass of whiskey on the rocks, when he notices her gaze and makes eye contact. Apparently some of her fondness must show in her face, because he reddens slightly and looks away.

“I have to leave, before I throw up,” Jenny says in disgust. She stands, and Dessa gets up from the table with her. “Look, Dessa...”

“Thanks for not making a bigger deal out of this,” she says to the other woman, as Jenny trails off.

“Mm. Not like I have much choice. Still. I know what it's like to have a shitty Match. You ever get tired of your so-called soulmate, if he ever does something to you, come talk to me. I might not have a solution, but I'll be able to listen.”

_That means a lot, coming from her._

“Thanks.”

Moriarty has been edging closer to them as their conversation draws to a close, and now that Jenny's on her way out the door, he's at Dessa's side. “Come back anytime you want to see how a real business is run, dearie,” he calls as she steps out.

Jenny scoffs, and the door swings shut.

“She's not so bad,” Dessa tells him.

“No?” Moriarty crosses his arms. “She ever tell you about all the rumors that her and her brothers have told about me? How many trade deals I've lost due to her vicious gossip? That wench is a harpy. But if you need to find that out for yourself, I'm not going to stop you.”

“Don't worry. I don't think she really wants to be friends with me anyways.” Dessa glances around. “Speaking of my friends, do you know where Gob is? Or Nova?”

“Nova stepped out to see him. He offered to clean up your house and he hasn't been back since.” Moriarty scratches his chin. “I'd be a little more peeved, but after having seen the state of the place...”

“Mm, it was nice of him to offer.”

There's a short silence. Moriarty taps a finger against his arm. Dessa watches him for a moment, thinking, and then meets his eyes.

How often had she envisioned this? Being here, with him, by her Match's side; looking at him without ridicule or disdain reflected in his eyes. Things didn't work out the way she had planned, but yet she was still here, right?

What if she had done it Moriarty's way? What if, on that night, when she saw his Mark, she had simply told him who she was? Would things really be so different? Knowing now what she didn't know then, that he was capable (to an extent) of kindness and care? It could be that she never would have had to struggle at all.

“I'm sorry,” she tells him, and those ice-blue eyes widen slightly. “I didn't think about your feelings, when I made my decisions since coming to this town. I caused problems for you... made you feel guilty about your own choices.”

Moriarty wraps his arms around her, pulling her to his chest before she can see his expression. “Dessa...”

“But I can't apologize completely. I'm a better person now than when I first came to Megaton. I'm stronger. I'm able to make my own choices, and I've learned to think about other people, even though this world is so much harder than life in the Vault. So please... forgive me, because I can't say I'm sorry about my choices.”

She takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the warmth of her Match, the scent of beer and cigarettes. Strange, how that scent makes her feel so safe.

“There's no turning back time, lass,” Moriarty says as he lets her go. “You know you're not the only one with regrets.”

He turns a quick glare on Burke, who is watching them with avid curiousity, and clears his throat. “All's forgiven, Dessa. Don't worry about it.”

_Is this really okay?_ she wonders, as Moriarty walks away to greet a newly-arrived caravan trader. _Just like that, it's alright?_

She watches the trader stomp mud off his boots, shake out his long coat and fill the bar with a cloud of dust. The tired gleam of unpolished brass buttons on his vest. Just another customer, another source of caps, another means to an end. And Moriarty is already smooth-talking him, ready to work on deals, subtly digging questions about his wares, his reasons for passing through Megaton. As if nothing has changed.

And then Moriarty glances over at her, fingers beckoning with the same kind of sarcastic half-smile that he so often wears: “And this is my lovely Match, Dessa.”

The trader tips his hat, and the two men go back to discussing business, but there's a tiny spark inside of her now, and she settles back down at her table to listen.

_I guess it's alright after all._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, ART OF MY BOI JOSS  
> [here](http://rhobi.tumblr.com/post/169666855796/a-full-shaded-commission-of-magnificentkinkmemes)


	20. The Moment (that I decide to give up themed chapter titles)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter bumps up the rating from "Mature" to "Explicit".

After a full day and night of listening to Enclave radio, low and quiet in the background, Dessa finally loses her patience and turns the radio off. Moriarty glances up from the counter where he's counting caps, but doesn't say anything.

“What's that station that Gob's always trying to tune to again?”

“Galaxy News,” Moriarty tells her. “Don't bother, it's mostly static.”

She doesn't need the reminder; she's heard enough of Gob's griping. And she's also seen him get smacked for trying it when Gob thought Moriarty wasn't paying attention. Dessa heaves out a sigh. “I wish there were more things to listen to. Back in the Vault, we had better variety.”

Her Match locks the caps in his safe, makes a few notes in his accounting journal. She frowns, wondering if he's going to ignore that statement until he says, “Want me to try to get a record player? I know of a few merchants who might be able to find one in working condition.”

She brightens. “Really? That would be wonderful!”

“Well, I've been thinking about it for awhile. It would be an investment, but with GNR having been down so long, it might be a good idea. And it's an amenity that the Brass Lantern doesn't have.”

Dessa grins as she listens to him convince himself. They've been with each other all day, relaxing slowly, releasing tension as they watch one another interact with the customers, learning their mannerisms in the fresh light of mutual honesty. They've locked up the bar now, and Dessa is pleased to have found a place here. The customers seemed interested in talking with her (and also asking prying questions about Moriarty) and within a few hours, she was starting to learn how to best help: where the stock was, the glasses, how to run the till.

She lets out a massive yawn as Moriarty double-checks the lock, and he glances at her. “You're sure you didn't overdo it today?”

“I'm fine,” she says, and pats his arm. “So... what do you usually do once you close up shop?”

He shrugs. “Glass of whiskey, count stock, get supplies ready for tomorrow's batch of beer. Make sure Gob's done his job, check that nothing's untidy.”

“Since he's not here, do you want me to clean?” She hesitates. She's not particularly strong, and cleaning the entire bar as well as Gob does will probably be tiring. _I'll be exhausted, but it's no worse than what Gob has gone through. It'll be better for him if I do this now, rather than for him to have to face Moriarty's irritation when he comes back from cleaning my house._

_Although, he hasn't been by all day. Has he eaten anything? Could something be wrong?_

“Don't bother yourself with it, lass, you've been on your feet enough so as it is.” He motions her towards a barstool, despite her protests, and makes her sit. “I'll do a little sweeping up and Gob can do the rest when he comes back in.”

“I'm a little concerned that we haven't seen him at all today.”

Moriarty waves a hand, once again comsumed by his ledger books. “Don't worry about him. Damn useless wretch is probably just bunking off again.”

He catches Dessa's pointed glance and amends, “Well, I suppose he's earned it either way.”

“You really think he's okay?”

“He's a _ghoul,_ dearie, I think he'll be fine. Besides, Nova's looking after him.”

Moriarty seems completely unconcerned. Dessa had thought he'd be more annoyed by not having his slave to order around, but he seems to be in relatively high spirits. Even while he's wiping down tables, he's whistling now and then, and occasionally mumble-sings a few words of traditional Irish ditties.

Could this really be because of her?

“Come along, lass,” he says, distracting her from her thoughts. “Off to bed. I'm sure you're more tired than I am.”

“You're finished down here?” she asks. She's hesitant, not wanting to go to bed without him.

“It'll be good enough,” he dismisses, and follows her up.

It's only when she's standing on the balcony, looking over the bar, that she realizes the two of them are completely alone, and that they will be for the rest of the night.

 _Okay._  

Dessa bites her lip. This would be the perfect time to sleep with him, for real, to quit this dance they've been doing around each other. And yet... _Think about what happened last time: you made him stop before we even got anywhere. I know that he wouldn't force the issue, but I don't want to do that again; it isn't fair to him._

_Then again, when else would we have an opportunity like this? I didn't think about it last time, but Nova was two doors down. And when Gob comes back, he'll be right next to us... There's no way I'd want him overhearing us._

Indecisive, she follows her Match into their bedroom. Moriarty is oblivious to her musings, stripping out of his clothes efficiently before glancing back at her.

“Mind getting the lights for me, lass?”

Dessa closes the door and flicks the switch, before stepping out of her skirt and panties, leaving on only Moriarty's shirt. It's oversized and comfortable, and wearing it, knowing what it must do to her Match, emboldens her.

He's bathed in moonlight from the window. Silver light on silver hair, shining on pale skin and cold eyes. _Rugged and beautiful._

He turns to look at her, and his eyes darken.

“Ah, lass, you're a vision.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”

Moriarty reaches out, like he can't help himself, calloused hand caressing her upper arm and dipping under the sleeve of her shirt. “Don't tempt me tonight,” he warns. His gaze is steady, and filled with wicked promise. Dessa sucks in a breath and bites her lip.

“Or what? What are you gonna—”

She shrieks with laughter as he lifts her up and throws her on the bed, but he doesn't join her; there's a warm chuckle, and then he's unlacing his boots, removing his pants.

“Go to sleep, Dessa.”

She's quiet for a little, somewhat miffed by the unspoken rejection, and tries again. “I want to.”

“Want to what?” he asks quietly.

“I want to sleep with you.”

A small scoff. “We've done that several times already.”

“You know what I mean.”

Moriarty gets into bed, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath him, and lays on his back. For a moment, he stares at the ceiling. And then: “Look, Dess. I only want you to be ready. I won't do a thing if you can't even say it. Why rush this?”

“We're alone.”

He laughs. “That's easy enough to fix, dearie. Next time you need a free gaff, we'll just toss Gob out on his ears and tell him you need a looking to, hm?”

Dessa smacks his arm, although she thinks it's rather adorable, the way his brogue thickens when he's tired or amused. “No! I don't want anyone to know when we're about to have sex!”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Ah, you've said it.”

She blushes, falling silent.

“Easy. We've got all the time in the world.”

“But—”

“Fine.” Moriarty sits up, squints down at her. “You really want to do this that bad? You tell me exactly what you want, and I'll do it. Word for word. I won't do a thing more, but I have to hear you say it. I'm not about to do a thing you aren't ready for.”

“T-then...” Dessa pauses, blushing harder. She doesn't want to say the words; she wants him to just _do_ it, she wants to be completely certain, to not have this anxiety rolling through her stomach. But she's determined, and that counts for a great deal. “I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes soften, and he leans down. His beard brushes over her cheek, and warm lips meet hers. He doesn't crowd her, though, keeping his distance; he adjusts the angle, and their tongues slide against each other. His kisses are sweet and slow, and Dessa luxuriates in them. Her face tingles, skin chafing from the rasp of his goatee, and the sliver of discomfort only serves to titillate.

He draws back with a sigh, doesn't say or do anything more, waiting.

“Did I tell you to stop?” she demands, and Moriarty chuckles before moving in again. The kiss is messier this time, deeper. Dessa can feel saliva wet her lips but it doesn't seem to matter. With her eyes closed, Moriarty hovering above her, it feels as though the sense of vision has entirely faded away, like it was never there, wholly secondary to powerful sensation. It doesn't take long for a familiar warmth to kindle between her legs; a wet heat that makes her squirm in discomfort.

Dessa pushes him away then. “Lay back.”

He obeys wordlessly. Her hands run down his torso, through the smattering of chest hair and down to his navel. She toys with the edge of his boxers, admiring the softness of the skin around his hips, and meets his eyes.

“Take this off?” she asks softly.

Gaze smoldering, he reaches down to free himself and then tosses his underwear off the bed, ungraceful in his haste.

Dessa looks down, and takes a deep breath.

Cocks, essentially, have been an abstract concept. In the Vault, she's only seen them in medical textbooks. She could name a few parts without knowing what they look like; it had seemed that the publishers had skirted around graphic illustrations, favoring terminology and dry, utilitarian jargon. Words that list without description of form or function;  _sac, shaft, frenulum._

After leaving the Vault? Well, everything was different. Everything she knows about appearance, she's seen in the latest edition of _The Wasteland's Baddest (and Hottest),_ the dirty magazine that Moira is an avid subscriber of.

But it's worlds away from seeing one in person, and also a little different because her Match is a good twenty to thirty years older than most of the men featured. Like the rest of him, the hair surrounding his cock is silver; it's coarse but less curly, thinner than the pictures she'd seen in the magazine. It's also a little smaller than the other men's cocks, despite being fully-erect, but given that she's a virgin, Dessa's rather grateful about that.

“Do I meet your expectations, lass?” he asks, his voice a little strained.

_Is... is he nervous? He can't honestly be worried about something like this, can he?_

“You exceed them,” she says, and he relaxes, slightly. “Can I touch you?”

“I'm yours,” he says quietly. “Always have been.”

Dessa can't help herself; she kisses him again, and he twitches beneath her, shifting his hips before falling still. _He's impatient. He won't say it, but he is. Is he afraid of making me nervous again?_

As uncomfortable as she was the last time they tried this, his silence is almost just as unnerving. Moriarty is generally so chatty that this forced, watchful silence makes her wish she had pushed down her own panic and let him have his way with her. He would have regretted it, had he done it with her in such a state, but at least they'd have it out of the way. He wouldn't be so careful with her, like he is now.

She reaches out, and Moriarty flinches before her hand even touches his cock.

“Is it that sensitive?” she asks, running her fingertips down his length, and he shudders.

“Nngh—just, feels different to have someone else touching it.”

His eyes go partway closed when she closes her hand around his shaft and strokes. His hips jerk up into her hand and she lets go, surprised.

“You trying to torture me?” he grits out.

“No,” she says with a laugh. “You seem very... pent up.”

He grumbles, biting back words, and appears to force himself back into submission—eyes closed this time.

“Do you have lubricant?” she asks, and his eyes squint open.

He appears to weigh her words, and then says, “I have massage oil. Second drawer beside the bed.”

Dessa raises her eyebrows as she retrieves it. _“Massage oil?”_

“For my shoulder,” he explains. “Old injury. It's not too bad, but it aches on rainy days. It, ah, it should be suitable for whatever you decide to do with it.”

“I think you already have some idea,” Dessa teases.

“Oh?”

“I want you to...”

“Out with it, lass. Nothing's happening until you tell me.”

She swallows. “I want you to put your cock in me.”

He grins, and gone is the gentle and submissive facade he's put on for the past few minutes. His smirk is toothy and dangerous, the same sort of smile he'd given her upon their first meeting, the one that said he was about to get exactly what he wanted, no matter who got in his way. Calculating, cruel, and this time, filled with heat.

“You want to get fucked by me? Say it.”

She blinks, swipes her tongue over her lips.

“I... Yes. I want you to fuck me.”

He drags up her shirt and pours the oil over her cunt, heedless of the excess spilling onto the sheets. She shivers and squirms at the cold and uncomfortable sensation, and he runs his fingers over her folds, catching some to rub on his cock.

Without another word, he pushes into her. There's a burst of intense discomfort, so painful that Dessa bites her lip, until she feels blood in her mouth. Moriarty stops, his fists clenching, and hisses, _“Tight._ Relax a little.”

He can't be very far in, but it's so painful. _I thought lube was supposed to make it go easier?_ Instead she's holding in a whimper. _How do other women manage this?_

But she takes a deep breath, and forces her legs to unclench, and the weight of her Match's body above her causes him to slide in a little deeper.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

It takes what feels like hours before he's fully sheathed, and Dessa has to keep fighting back panic. It's scary and painful. She wants to tell him to stop, but after having faced down a feral Glowing One, she doesn't want to call herself a coward. This is her Match, after all, and the first time is likely to be the worst anyways.

Deep breaths help.

She knows he's done when the front of his sac brushes against her skin; she twitches at the unexpected touch. Moriarty lets out a long sigh and presses his face into her chest. “Gimme a minute.”

“Give _you_ a minute?”

“Tryin' not to lose it here,” he grits out.

“Please don't.”

“Ah, _feck.”_ Moriarty gasps against her neck, and she realizes she'd just clenched up without thinking.

She does it a second time and he whines. There's a hot rush inside of her, and she's alarmed before she realizes that he's just come.

He takes a few more moments, panting and half-crushing her, before he lifts his head with a short laugh. “Well, lass, that's not how I anticipated this going.”

“What did you anticipate?” she asks.

“I was hopin' you'd be the one losing control, not me.” He pushes himself back onto his elbows, runs a hand through his hair, and checks her over. “You still doing alright, dearie?”

“It doesn't hurt right now?” she offers half-heartedly.

Moriarty shakes his head. “Let's not leave it at that. I can do better. You trust me?”

“Of course.”

“Because I might be old, but I can go another round. Just give me a bit.”

They spend the next minute or so, staring into one another's eyes. Moriarty appears to be memorizing her features as if he's never truly seen her before, and when he brushes her hair behind one ear, it jostles their position, reminding her that he's still hard.

“You're a beauty, lass, you know that?”

And he slides out, then draws his hips in forward. Dessa makes a squeak of surprise, because _that?_ That felt _good._

“Love seeing you under me like this. Thought you were a pretty little thing, back when I first saw you. Never imagined you'd be mine,” he continues as he fucks her in slow, steady thrusts. “So fecking pale, a white Vault lily.”

Dessa can't respond; she's too busy seeing stars. Her back is arching, small noises gasping out every time he jerks into her. A rush leaves her when he swears.

As perceptive as he is, Moriarty doesn't miss it, and he grins. “Oh? Ye like it when I talk, hm?”

She moans in response. “Colin... don't stop...”

“Is it the accent?” he wonders, faltering, and then picks up speed, his lascivious grin turning rather sadistic. “You get off on hearing me voice? Thank feck I stayed in Ireland as long as I did. Never thought me Match would get wet just from hearin' a brogue.”

He laughs, and his accent lessens as he continues, falling back into his usual speaking patterns—still undoubtedly Irish, no longer forced. “Ah, lass, you feel so good... so tight..."

"Please don't stop," Dessa cries out.

"Wish I'd known who you were the moment you walked in," he grunts, and twists her leg up over his shoulder, his motions harsh and unforgiving. Her leg spasms in pain at the manhandling, but he doesn't seem to notice, pistoning his hips harder and faster, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his teeth gritted. The twinge of discomfort makes her gasp, her fingernails cutting into his back, and he lets out a groan that resounds through the room.

"I could have been inside your gorgeous cunt so much sooner," he growls, and nibbles at her neck. She whimpers; he speeds up suddenly, hips twitching, and then slows to his previous pace. "Hell, if I'd have seen your Mark when you stayed here as a baby, I never would'a left yer daddy go into that fucking Vault.”

He grunts, pushing into her harder, and Dessa wails.

“Would'a made him stay in the town. Kept you safe. Get to see you blossom, all the while you knowing that you were gonna be mine someday.”

He turns his head, and snarls into her ear: “Everyone would have to see you, want you—but you're all mine. I would'a stolen you away on your eighteenth birthday, made you a woman. None of this waiting bullshit, Lord knows we don't live long enough in this wasteland anyways. Or would you have been curious? Maybe, if you'd grown up here, I'd have fucked you sooner.”

Dessa lets out a keening cry, and clenches hard around him; once, twice, it goes on for long moments, each bleeding into the next, awash with waves of pleasure. She's still shuddering when she comes down from her high.

_Fuck._

Moriarty is staring at her, looking torn between exhaustion and awe. Beads of sweat are gathered at his temples. "That was..."

"Yeah," she whispers.

"They say that nothing's better than being with yer Match," he says, and shakes his head. "That's a certainty.  _Dessa..."_

They're both covered in lube, sweat, and come, and neither of them cares. Dessa knows this for herself, and Moriarty is still staring at her as if he's never seen a woman until now. It makes her feel like a goddess. As if she's the only good thing in the wasteland, like she's better than music and apple pie filling and caps, all at once.

"I'm not done ordering you around yet," she tells him, and he winces and glances down, as if he's only just come back to himself.

"Ah, lass, I don't think..."

"Shh," she says, and pulls him down next to her. She rolls onto her side, and clutches both his hands in her own. Their eyes meet: slate blue and steel. There's nothing else in the world: not the bedroom, not the bar, not the town sleeping outside; not the wastes, not the night air, not the stars in the sky, or the moon. It's only them, and those two colors meeting. "Colin Moriarty, be mine forever. I don't want to be apart from you, ever again."

One calloused hand cups her face. "That's a promise I'll gladly make."

 

 

 


End file.
